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POPULAR     NOVELS 
By  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Hoi  meg. 

All  published  uniform  with  tbis  volume,  at  $1.50,  and  Bent 
free  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price. 


I. DARKNESS   AND    DAYLIGHT.. 

n. — 'LESA  RIVERS. 

III. TEMPEST    AND    SUNSHINE. 

IV. MARIAN   GREY. 

V. MEADOW  BROOK. 

VI. — ENGLISH  ORPHANS. 

VII. DORA  DEANE. 

VIII. — COUSIN   MAUDE. 
IX. HOMESTEAD    ON    THE    HILLSIDE. 


Kre.  Holmes  is  %  peculiarly  pleasant  and  fascinating  writer 
Her  bonks  are  always  entertaining,  and  slie  lias  the 
rare  faculty  of  enlisting  the  sympathy  and  affec- 
tions of  her  readers,  and   of  holding  their 
attention  to  her  paces  with  deep 
and  absorbing  interest, 

CARLETON,  Publisher, 

New  York. 


MARIAN    GREY; 


OR,   THE 


HEIRESS  'OF    REDSTONE     HALL, 


BY 

MRS.  MARY  J.  HOLMES, 

AUTHOR  OF  "LENA  RIVERS,"  "TEMPEST  AND  SUNSHINE,"  ETC..  ETC. 


NEW  YORK: 

Car/eton,  Publisher -,  413  Broadway. 

M  DCCC  LXV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1863, 

Br    DANIEL    HOLMES, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Northern  District  of  New  York 


TO 

N..    C.    MILLER, 

OT      HBW      YORK, 

MY    MUCH     ESTEEMED     FRIEND, 

AND 

FORMER    PUBLISHER, 
THIS     STORY     OF     MARIAN     GREY 

13    RESPECTFDLtT 

DEDICATED, 

•  T 

THE    AUTHOR 


205126,': 


MARIAN       GREY. 


CHAPTER    I. 


THE  night  was  dark  and  the  clouds  black  and  heavy 
which  hung  over  Redstone  Hall,  whose  massive  walls 
loomed  up  through  the  darkness  like  some  huge  senti- 
nel keeping  guard  over  the  spacious  grounds  by  which 
it  was  surrounded.  Within  the  house  all  was  still, 
and  without  there  was  no  sound  to  break  the  mid- 
night silence  save  the  sighing  of  the  autumnal  wind 
through  the  cedar  trees,  or  the  roar  of  the  river,  which, 
swollen  by  the  recent  heavy  rains,  went  rushing  on  to 
meet  its  twin  sister  at  a  point  well  known  in  Kentucky, 
where  our  story  opens,  as  "  The  Forks  of  theElkhorn." 
From  one  of  the  lower  windows  a  single  light  was 
shining,  and  its  dim  rays  fell  upon  the  face _of  a  white- 
haired  man,  who  moaned  uneasily  in  his  sleep,  as  if 
pursued  by  some  tormenting  fear.  At  last,  as  the  old- 
fashioned  clock  struck  off  the  hour  of  twelve,  he 
awoke,  and  glancing  nervously  toward  the  corner, 
whence  the  sound  proceeded,  he  whispered,  "Have 
you  come  again,  Ralph  Lindsey,  to  tell  me  of  my 
sin  I" 

"  What'  is  it,   Mr.  Raymond  ?"  and  a  young  girl 


8  GUARDIAN   AND   WARD. 

glided  to  the  bedside  of  the  old  man,  who,  taking  her 
hand  in  his,  the  better  to  assure  himself  of  her  pres- 
ence, baid,  "  Marian,  is  there  nothing  in  that  corner 
yonder — nothing  with  silvery  hair  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Marian,  "  nothing  but  the 
lamplight  shining  on  the  face  of  the  old  clock.  Did 
you  think  there  was  some  one  here  2" 

"  Yes — no.  Marian,  do  you  believe  the  dead  can 
come  back  to  us  again — when  we  have  done  them  a 
wrong — the  dead  who  are  buried  in  the  sea,  I  mean  ?" 

Marian  shuddered  involuntarily,  and  cast  a  timid 
look  toward  the  shadowy  corner,  then,  conquering  her 
weakness,  she  answered,  "  No,  the  dead  cannot  come 
back.  But  why  do  you  talk  so  strangely  to-night  ?" 

The  old  man  hesitated  a  moment  ere  he  replied. — 
"  The  time  has  come  for  me  to  speak,  so  that  your  fa- 
ther can  rest  in  peace.  He  has  been  with  me  more 
than  once  in  this  .very  room,  and  to-night  I  fancied  he 
was  here  again,  asking  why  I  had  dealt  so  falsely  with 
his  child." 

"  Falsely!"  cried  Marian,  kissing  tenderly  the  hand 
of  the  only  parent  she  had  ever  known.  "  Not  falsely, 
I  am  sure,  for  you  have  been  most  kind  to  me." 

"And  yet,  Marian,"  he  said,  "I  have  done  you  a 
wrong — a  wrong  which  has  eaten  into  my  very  soui, 
and  worn  my  life  away.  I  did  not  intend  to  speak  of 
it  to-night,  but  something  prompts  me  to  do  so,  and 
you  must  listen.  On  that  night  when  your  father 
died,  and  when  all  in  the  ship,  save  ourselves  and  the 
watch,  were  asleep,  I  laid  my  hand  on  his  forehead, 
and  swore  to  be  faithful  to  my  trust.  Do  you  hear, 
Marian — faithful  to  my  trust.  You  don't  know  what 
that  meant,  but  I  know,  and  I've  broken  my  oath  to 
the  dying — and  from  that  grave  in  the  ocean  he  comes 
to  rue  sometimes,  and  with  the  same  look  upon  his 
face  which  it  wore  that  Summer  afternoon  when  we 
laid  him  in  the  sea,  he  asks  why  justice  has  not  been 
done  to  you.  Wait,  Marian,  until  I  have  finished," 
he  continued,  as  he  saw  her  about  to  speak  ;  "  I  know 


GUARDIAN   AND    WARD.  9 

I  have  not  long  to  live,  and  I  would  make  amends  ; 
but,  Marian,  I  would  rather — oh,  so  much  rather,  you 
should  not  know  the  truth  until  I'm  dead.  You 
will  forgive  me  then  more  readily,  won't  you,  Marian  ? 
Promise  me  you  will  forgive  the  poor  old  man  who 
has  loved  you  so  much — loved  you,  if  possible,  better 
than  he  loved  his  only  son." 

He  paused  for  her  reply,  and  half  bewildered,  Ma-' 
rian  answered,  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean — but  if, 
as  you  say,  a  wrong  has  been  done,  no  matter  how 
great  that  wrong  may  be,  it  is  ffeely  forgiven  for  the 
sake  of  what  you've  been  to  me." 

The  sick  man  wound  his  arm  lovingly  around  her, 
and  bringing  her  nearer  to  him,  he  said,  "  Bless  you, 
Marian— -bless  you  for  that.  It  makes  my  deathbed 
easier.  I  will  leave  it  in  writing — my  confession.  I 
cannot  tell  it  now,  for  I  could  not  bear  to  see  upon 
your  face  that  you  despised  me.  You  wrote  to  Fred- 
eric, and  told  him  to  come  quickly  ?" 

u  Yes,"  returned  Marian,  "  I  said  you  were  very 
sick  and  wished  to  see  him  at  once." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the  room ;  then, 
removing  hia  arm  from  the  neck  of  the  young  girl,  the 
old  man  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow  and  looking 
her  steadily  in  the  face,  said,  "  Marian,  could  you  love 
my  son  Frederic  ?" 

The  question  was  a  strange  one,  but  Marian  Lind- 
sey  was  accustomed  to  strange  mode^  of  speech  in  her 
guardian,  and  with  a  slightly  heightened  color  she 
answered  quietly,  "  I  do  love  him  as  a  brother — " 

"  Yes,  but  I  would  have  you  love  him  as  something 
nearer,"  returned  her  guardian.  "Ever  since  I  took 
you  for  my  child  it  has  been  the  cherished  object  of 
my  life  that  you  should  be  his  wife." 

There  was  a  nervous  start  and  an  increase  of  color 
in  Marian's  face,  for  the  idea,  though  not  altogether 
disagreeable,  was  a  new  one  to  her,  but  she  made  no 
reply,  and  her  guardian  continued,  "  I  am  seltish  in 
this  wish,  though  not  wholly  so.  I  know  you  could 
1* 


10  GUARDIAN    AND   WARD. 

be  happy  with  him,  and  in  no  other  way  can  my  good 
name  be  saved  from  disgrace.  Promise  me,  Marian, 
that  you  will  be  his  wife  very  soon  after  I  am  dead, 
and  before  all  Kentucky  is  talking  of  my  sin.  You 
are  not  too  young.  You  will  be  sixteen  in  a  few 
months,  and  many  marry  as  early  as  tha*t." 

"  Does  Ite  wish  it?"  asked  Marian,  timidly  ;  and  her 
guardian  replied,  "  He  has  known  you  .but  little  of 
late,  but  when  he  sees  you  here  at  home,  and  learns 
how  gentle  and  good  you  are,  he  cannot  help  loving 
you  as  you  deserve." 

"  Yes  he  can,"  answered  Marian  with  childish  sim- 
plicity. "  No  man  as  handsome  as  Frederic  ever  loved 
a  girl  with  an  ugly  face,  and  I  heard  him  tell  Will 
Gordon,  when  he  spent  a  vacation  here,  that  I  was  a 
nice  little  girl,  but  altogether  too  freckled,  too  red- 
headed, and  Bcrawney,  ever  to  make  a  handsome  wo- 
man," and  Marian's  voice  trembled  slightly  as  she 
recalled  a  speech  which  had  wrung  from  her  many 
tears. 

To  this  remark  Col.  Raymond  made  no  reply  — for 
he  too,  had  cause  to  doubt  Frederic's  willingness  to 
marry  a  girl  who  boasted  so  few  personal  charms  as 
did  Marian  Lindsey  then.  Rumors,  too,  he  had  heard, 
of  a  peerlessly  beautiful  creature,  with  raven  hair 
and  eyes  of  deepest  black,  who  at  the  north  kept  his 
son  a  captive  to  her  will.  But  this  could  not  be  ; 
Frederick  must  marry  Marian,  for  in  no  other  way 
could  the  name  of  Kaymond  be  saved  from  a  dis- 
grace, or  the  vast  possessions  he  called  his  be  kept  in 
the  family,  and  he  was  about  to  speak  again  when  a 
heavy  tread  in  the  hall  announced  the  approach  of 
some  one,  and  a  moment  after,  Aunt  Dinah,  the 
housekeeper,  appeared.  "She  had  come  to  sit  up 
with  her  marster,"  she  said,  "and  lee  Miss  Marian 
go  to  bed,  where  children  like  her  ought  to  be." 

At  Hist  Marian  objected,  for  though  scarcely  con- 
scious of  it  herself,  she  way  well  enough  pleased  to 
sit  where  she  was  and  hear  her  guardian  talk  of  Fred 


GUARDIAN'    AND    WARD.  11 

eric  and  of  what  she  had  no  hope  would  ever  be  ;  but 
when  Aunt  Dinah  suggested  to  her  that  sitting  up 
so  much  would  make  her  look  yellow  and  old,  she 
yielded,  for  Frederic  was  a  passionate  admirer  of 
beauty,  and  she  well  knew  that  she  had  none  to  lose. 
Kissing  her  guardian  good  night,  she  hurried  to  her 
chamber,  but  not  to  sleep,  for  the  tumult  of  thought 
which  her  recent  conversation  had  awakened  kept  her 
restless  and  wakeful.  Under  ordinary  circumstances 
she  would  have  wondered  what  the  wrong  could  be 
at  which  Col.  Raymond  had  .hinted,  but  now  she 
scarcely  remembered  it,  or  if  it  occurred  to  her  at  all, 
she  instantly  dismissed  it  from  her  mind  as  some  triv- 
ial thing  which  the  weak  state  of  her  guardian's  mind 
magnified  into  a  serious  matter. 

Thirteen  years  before  our  story  opens,  Marian  had 
embarked  with  her  father  on  board  a  ship  which 
sailed  from  Liverpool  to  New  York.  Of  that  father 
she  remembered  little  save  that  he  was  very  poor, 
and  that  he  talked  of  his  poverty  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing of  which  he  was  proud.  Pleasant  memories, 
though,  she  had  of  an  American  gentleman  who  used 
often  to  take  her  on  his  lap,  and  tell  her  of  the  land 
to  which  she  was  going ;  and  when  one  day  her  father 
laid  him  down  in  his  berth,  with  the  fever  as  they 
said,  she  remembered  how  the  kind  man  had  care'd 
for  him,  holding  his  aching  head  and  "watching  by 
him  till  he  died  ; — then,  when  it  was  all  over,  he  had 
taken  her  upon  his  knee  and  told  her  she  was  to  be 
his  little  girl  now,  and  he  bade  her  call  him  father — 
telling  her  how  her  own  dead  parent  had  asked  him 
to  care  for  her,  who  in  all  the  wide  world  had  no  near 
relative.  Something,  too,  she  remembered  about  an 
old  coarse  bag,  which  had  troubled  her  new  father 
very  much,  and  which  he  had  finally  put  in  the  bot- 
tom of  his  trunk,  throwing  overboard  a  few  articles 
of  clothing  to  m:>ke  room  for  it.  The  voyage  was  long 
and  stormy,  but  they  reached  New  York  at  last,  and 
he  took  her  to  his  home — not  .Redstone  Hall,  but  an 


12  .  GUARDIAN    AND   WABD 

humble  farm-house  on  the  Hudson,  where  he  had  al 
ways  lived.  Frederic  was  a  boy  then — a  dark  haired 
handsome  boy  of  eleven,  and  even  now  she  shuddered 
as  she  remembered  how  he  used  to  tease  and  worry 
her.  Still  he  liked  her,  she  was  sure — and  the  first 
real  grief  which  she  remembered  was  on  that  rainy 
day  when,  with  an  extra  pull  at  her  long  curls,  he 
badejier  good-by  and  went  off  to  a  distant  boarding 
school. 

Col.  Raymond,  her  guardian,  was  growing  rich, 
and  people  said  he  must  have  entered  into  some  for- 
tunate speculation  while  abroad,  for,  since  his  return, 
prosperity  had  attended  every  movement;  and  when, 
six  months  after  Frederic's  departure,  he  went  to 
Kentucky  and  purchased  Redstone  Hall,  then  rather 
a  dilapidated  building,  Mrs.  Burt,  his  housekeeper, 
had  wondered  where  all  his  money  came  from,  when 
he  used  to  be  so  poor.  They  had  moved  to  Kentucky 
when  Marian  was  five  and  a  half  years  old — and  now, 
after  ten  years'  improvement,  there  was  not  in  the 
whole  county  so  beautiful  a  spot  as  Redstone  Hall, 
with  its  terraced  grounds,  its  graveled  walks,  its  plats 
of  grass,  its  grand  old  trees,  its  creeping  vines,  its 
flowering  shrubs  and  handsome  park  in  the  rear.  And 
this  was  Marian's  home  ; — here  she  had  lived  a  rather 
secluded  life,  for  only  when  Frederic  was  with  them 
did  they  see  much  company,  and  all  the  knowledge 
she  had  of  the  world  was  what  she  gleaned  from 
books  or  learned  from  the  negress  Dinah,  who,  "  hav- 
ing lived  with  the  very  first  families,"  frequently  en- 
tertained her  young  mistress  with  stories  of  "  the 
quality,"  and  the  dinner  parties  at  which  her  pres- 
ence was  once  so  indispensable.  And  Marian,  listen- 
ing to  these  glowing  descriptions  of  satin  dresses,  dia- 
monds and  feathers,  sometimes  wished  that  she  were 
rich,  and  could  have  a  taste  of  fashion.  To  be  sure, 
her  guardian  bought  her  always  more  than  she  need- 
ed— but  it  was  not  hers,  and  without  any  particular 
reason  why  she  should  do  so,  she  felt  that  she  was  a 


GUARDIAN   AND   WARD.  .         13 

dependent  and  something^  of  an  inferior,  especially 
when  Frederic  came  home  with  his  aristocratic  man- 
ners, his  graceful  mustache,  an  1  the  soft  scent  of  per- 
fumery he  usually  carried  with  him.  He  was  always 
polite  and  kind  to  Marian,  but  she  felt  that  there  was 
a  gulf  between  them.  He  was  handsome  ;  she  was 
plain — he  was  rich  ;  she  was  poor — he  was  educated, 
and  she — alas,  for  Marian's  education — she  read  a 
great  deal,  but  never  yet  had  she  given  herself  up  to 
a  systematic  course  of  study.  Governesses  she  had 
iu  plenty,  but  she  usually  coaxed  them  off  into  the 
woods,  or  down  by  the  river,  where  she  left  them  to 
do  what  they  pleased,  while  she  learned  many  a  les- 
son from  the  great  book  of  nature  spread  out  so  beau- 
tifully before  her.  All  this  had  tended  to  make  and 
keep -her  a  very  child,  and  it  was  not  until  her  four- 
teenth year  that  any  thing  occurred  to  develop  the 
genuine  womanly  qualities  which  she  possessed. 

By  the  death  of  a  distant  relative,  a  little  unfortu- 
nate blind  girl  was  left  to  Colonel  Raymond's  care,  and 
was  immediately  taken  to  Redstone  Hall,  where  she 
became  the  pet  of  Marian,  who  loved  nothing  in  the 
whole  world  as  dearly  as  the  poor  blind  Alice.  And 
well  was  that  love  repaid  ;  for  to  Alice  Marian  Lind- 
sey  was  the  embodiment  of  everything  beautiful,  pure 
and  good.  Frederic,  on  the  .contrary,  was  a  kind  of 
terror  to  the  little  Alice.  "  He  was  so  precise  and 
stuck  up,"  she  said  ;  "  and  when  he  was  at  home  Ma- 
rian was  not  a  bit  like  herself."  To  Marian,  however, 
his  occasional  visits  to  Redstone  Hall  were  sources  of 
great  pleasure.  To  look  at  his  handsome  figure,  to 
listen  to  hi*  voice,  to  anticipate  his  slightest  wish  and 
minister  to  his  wants  so  quietly  that  he  scarcely  knew 
from  whom  the  attention  came,  was  happiness  for 
her,  and  when  he  smiled  upon  her,  as  he  often  did, 
calling  her"  a  good  little  girl,"  she  felt  repaid  for  all 
she  had  done.  Occasionally,  since  her  guardian's  ill- 
ness, she  had  thought  of  the  future  when  some  fine 
lady  might  come  to  Redstone  Hail  as  its  mistress,  but 


14  GUARDIAN   AND   WAKD. 

the  subject  was  an  unpleasant  one,  and  she  always 
dismissed  it  from  her  mind.  In  her  estimation,  there 
were  few  worthy  to  be  the  wife  of  Frederic — certainly 
not  herself — and  when  the  idea  was  suggested  to  her 
by  his  father,  she  regarded  it  as  an  utter  impossibili- 
ty. Still  it  kept  her  wakeful,  and  once  she  said  softly 
to  herself,  "  I  could  love  him  so  much  if  he  would  let 
me,  and  I  should  be  so  proud  of  him,  too."  Then,  as 
she  remembered  the  remark  she  had  he  ird  him  make 
to  his  college  friend,  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  whispered,  sadly,  "  Oh,  I  wish  I.  wasn't 
ugly."  Anon,  however,  there  came  stealing  over  her 
the  thought  that  in  the  estimation  of  others  she  was 
not  as  plain  as  in  that  of  Frederic  Raymond.  Every 
body  seemed  to  like  her,  and  if  she  were  hideous  look- 
ing they  could  not.  Alice,  whose  darkened  eyes 
had  never  looked  upon  the  light  of  day,  -and  who 
judged  by  the  touch  alone,  declared  that  she  was 
beautiful,  while  old  Dinah  said  that  age  would  im- 
prove her  as  it  did  wine,  and  that  in  time  she  would 
be  the  handsomest  woman  in  all  Kentucky. 

Never  before  had  Marian  thought  so  much  of  her 
personal  appearance — and  now,  feeling  anxious  to 
know  exactly  what  her  defects  were,  she  arose,  and 
lighting  the  lamp,  placed  it  upon  her  dressing  bureau 
— then  throwing  a  shawl  around  her  shoulders,  she 
sat  down  and  minutely  inspected  the  face  which  Fred- 
eric Kaymond  called  so  homely.  The  features  were 
regular  enough,  but  the  face  was  very  thin — 
"  scrawney,"  Frederic  had  said,  and  the  cheek  bones 
were  plainly  perceptible.  This  might  be  the  result  of 
eating  slate-stones;  Dinah,  who  knew  'everything, 
said  it  was,  and  mentally  resolving  thereafter  to  ab- 
jure everything  of  the  kind,  Marian  continued  her 
investigations.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  her 
complexion  was  surpassingly  fair,  nor  yet  that  her 
eyes  were  of  a  most  beautiful  blue,  so  intent  was  she 
upon  the  freckles  which  dotted  her  nose  and  a  portion 
of  her  face.  Slate-stones  surely  had  nothing  to  do 


GUARDIAN    AND    WAKD.  .         15 

with  these,  and  s'he  knew  of  no  way  of  remedying 
tli is  evil — unless,  indeed,  poulticing  should  do  it. — 
She  would  consult  Dinah  on  the  subject,  and  feeling  a 
good  deal  of  confidence  in  the  negress' judgment,  she 
passed  on  to  what  she  Considered  her  crowning  point  of 
ugliness—  her  hair  !  It  was  soft,  luxuriant  and  curly, 
but  alas,  it  bore  the  color  which,  though  accounted 
beautiful  in  Mary  Stuart's  time,  has  long  since  been 
proscribed  by  fashion  as  horrid  andunbecoming.  Turn 
wlr'ch  way  she  would,  or  hold  the  lamp  in  any  position 
she  chose,  it  was  still  red — a  dark,  decided  red — and 
the  tears  came  to  Marian's  eyes  as  she  recalled  the 
many  times  when,  as  a  boy,  Frederic  taunted  her  with 
being  a  "  red-head  "  or  a  "  brick-top,"  just  as  the  hu- 
mor suited  him.  Suddenly  she  remembered  that 
among  her  treasures  was  a  lock  of  her  mother's 
hair,  and  opening  a  rosewood  box  she  took  from  it  a 
shining  tress  which  she  laid  upon  the  marble  top  of 
her  bureau,  and  then  bent  down  to  admire  its  color,  a 
beautiful  auburn,  such  as  is  rarely  seen — and  which, 
when  seen,  is  sure  to  be  admired. 

"And  this  was  my  mother's,"  she  whispered, 
smoothing  caressingly  the  silken  hair.  "  I  must  re- 
semble her  more  than  my  father,  who  my  guardian 
says  was  dark.  I  wisli  I  was  like  her  in  everything, 
for  I  believe  she  was  beautiful,"  and  into  the  mind  of 
the  orphan  girl  there  crept  an  image  of  a  bright- 
haired,  sweel -faced  woman,  whose  eyes  of  lustrous 
blue  looked  lovingly  into  her  own — and  this  was  her 
mother.  She  had  seen  her  thus  in  fancy  many  a  time, 
but  never  so  vividly  as  to-night,  and  unconsciously 
she  breathed  the  petition,  u  Let  me  look  like  her 
some  day.  and  I  shall  be  content." 

The  gray  morning  light  was  by  this  time  stealing 
through  the  window,  and  overcome  with  weariness  and 
watching,  Marian  fell  asleep,  and  when,  two  hours 
later,  old  Dinah  came  in  to  wake  her,  she  found  her 
sitting  before  the  glass,  with  the  lamp  still  ourning  at 


ll>  GUARDIAN   AND   WARD. 

her  side,  and  her  head  resting  on  her  arms,  which  lay 
upon  the  low  bureau. 

"  For  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  what  are  you  doing  ?" 
was  Dinalrs  exclamation,  which  at  once  roused  Ma- 
rian, who  unhesitatingly  answered, 

"I  got  up  to  look  in  the  glass,  and  see  if  I  was  so 
very  homely." 

"  Humbly  !  Nonsense,  child,"  returned  old  Dinah. 
"You  look  like  a  pi.cter  lyin'  thar  \vith  the  sun  a  shin- 
in'  on  yer  har,  and  makin'  it  look  like  a  piece  of  crim- 
son satin." 

The  compliment  was  a  doubtful  one,  but  Marian 
knew  it  was  well  meant,  and,  without  a  word  in  re- 
ply, commenced  her  morning  toilet.  That  day,  some- 
what to  her  disappointment,  her  guardian  did  not  re- 
sume the  conversation  of  the  previous  night.  He  was 
convinced  that  Marian  could  be  easily  won,  but  he 
did  not  think  it  wise  to  encourage  her  until  he  had 
talked  with  his  son,  whose  return  he  looked  for  anx- 
iously. But  day  after  day  went  by,  and  it  was  in 
vain  that  Alice  listened,  and  Marian  watched,  for  the 
daily  stage.  It  never  stopped  at  the  gate;  and  each 
time  that  the  old  man  heard  them  say  it  had  gone  by, 
he  groaned  afresh,  fearing  Frederic  would  not  come 
until  it  was  too  late. 

UI  can  at  least  tell  him  the  truth  on  paper,"  he  said 
to  himself  at  last,  "  and  it  may  "be  he  will  pay  more 
heed  to  words,  which  a  dead  father  wrote,  than  to 
words  which  a  living  father  spoke." 

Marian  was  accordingly  bidden  to  bring  him  his  little 
writing  desk,  and  then  to  leave  the  room,  for  he 
would  be  .alone  when  he  wrote  that  letter  of  confes- 
sion. It  cost  him  many  a  fierce  struggle — the  telling 
to  his  son  a  secret  which  none  save  himself  and  God 
had  ever  known — aye,  which  none  had  ever  need  to 
know  if  he  would  have  it  so — but  he  would  not.  The 
secret  had  worn  his  life  away,  and  he  must  make  re- 
paration now.  So,  with  the  perspiration  dropping 
from  every  pore,  he  wrote ;  and,  as  he  wrote,  in  his 


GUARDIAN    AND   WARD.  17 

disordered  imagination,  there  stood  beside  his  pillow 
the  white-haired  Englishman,  watching  carefully  to 
see  that  justice  was  done  at  last  to  Marian.  Recently- 
several  letters  had  passed  between  the  father  and  his 
son  concerning  the  marriage  of  the  latter  with  Marian 
— a  marriage  every  way  distasteful  to  the  young  man, 
who,  in  his  answer,  ha'd  said  far  harsher  things  of  Ma- 
rian than  he  really  meant,  hoping  thus  to  put  an  end 
to  his  father's  plan,  bhe  was  "rough,  uncouth,  uned- 
ucated and  ugly,"  he  said,  "  and  if  his  father  did  not 
give  up  that  foolish  fancy,  he  should  positively  hate 
the  red-headed  fright." 

All  this  the  old  man  touched  upon — quoting  the 
very  words  his  son  had  used,  and  whispering  to  him- 
self, "Poor — poor  Marian,  it  would  break  her  heart 
to  know  that  he  said  that,  but  she  never  will — she 
never  will  ;"  and  then,  with  the  energy  of  despair,  he 
wrote  the  reason  why  she  must  be  the  wife  of  his  son, 
pleading  with  him  as  only  a  dying  man  can  plead, 
that  he  would  not  disregard  the  wishes  of  his  father, 
and  begging  him  to  forget  the  dark-haired  Isabel, 
who,  though  perhaps  more  beautiful,  was  not — could 
not — be  as  pure,  as  gentle  and  as  good  as  Marian. 

The  letter  was  finished,  and  'mid  burning  tears  of 
remorse  and  shame  the  old  man  read  it  through. 

"Yes,  that  will  do,"  he  said.  "Frederic  will  heed 
what's  written  here.  He'll -marry  her  or  else  make 
restitution  ;"  and  laying  it  away,  he  commenced  the 
last  and  hardest  part  of  all — the  confessing  to  Marian 
how  he  had  sinned  against  her. 

Although  there  was  no  tie  of  blood  between  them, 
the  gentle  young  orphan  had  crept  down  into  his» in- 
most heart,  where  once  he  treasured  a  little  golden- 
haired  girl,  who,  before  Frederic  was  born,  died  on 
his  lap,  and  went  to  the  heaven  made  for  such  as  she. 
In  the  first  moments  of  his  bereavement,  he  had 
thought  his  loss  could  never  be  repaired,  but  when, 
with  her  soft  anus  around  his  neck,  Marian  Lindsey 
had  murmured  in  his  ear  how  much  she  loved  the 


18  GUAKDIAN    AND    WARD. 

only  father  she  had  ever  known,  he  felt  that  the  angel 
he  had  lost  was  restored  to  him  tenfold  in  the  little 
English  girl.  He  knew  that  she  believed  that  there 
was  in  him  no  evil,  and  his  heart  throbbed  with  agony 
as  he  nerved  himself  to  tell  her  how  for  years  he  had 
acted  a  villain's  part,  but  it  was  done  at  last,  and  with 
a  passionate  appeal  for  her  forgiveness,  and  a  request 
that  she  would  not  forget  him  wholly,  but  come 
some  time  to  visit  his  lonely  grave,  he  finished  the 
letter,  and  folding  it  up,  wrote  upon  its  back,  "For 
3farian  ;"  then,  taking  the  one  intended  for  Frederic, 
he  attempted  to  write,  "For  my  Son"  but  the  ink  was 
gone  from  his  pen,  there  was  a  blur  before  his  eyes, 
and  though  he  traced  the  words  he  left  no  impress, 
and  the  letter  bore  no  superscription  to  tell  to  whom 
it  belonged.  Stepping  upon  the  floor,  lie  dragged  his 
feeble  limbs  to  the  adjoining  room,  his  library,  and 
placing  both  letters  in  his  private  drawer,  retired  to 
his  bed,  where,  utterly  exhausted,  he  fell  asleep. 

When  at  last  he  awoke,  Marian  was  sitting  by  his 
side,  and  to  her  he  communicated  what  he  had  done, 
telling  her  where  the  letters  were,  and  that  if  he  died 
ere  Frederic's  return,  she  must  give  the  one  bearing 
the  words  u  For  my  Son  "  to  him. 

"  You  will  not  read  it,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  or  ever 
seek  to  know  what  its  contents  are." 

Had  Marian  Lindsey  been  like  many  girls,  the  cau- 
tion would  have  insured  the  reading  of  the  letter  at 
once,  but  she  fortunately  shrank  from  anything  dis- 
honorable, and  was  blessed  with  bat  a  limited  share 
of  woman's  curiosity  ;  consequently,  the  letter  was 
safe  in  her  care,  even  though  no  one  ever  came  to 
claim  it.  All  that  afternoon  she  sat  by  her  guardian, 
and  when  as  usual  the  stage  thundered  down  the  turn- 
pike, leaving  no  Frederic  at  the  door,  she  soothed  him 
with  the  hope  that  he  would  be  there  to-morrow.  But 
the  morrow  came  and  went  as  did  other  to-morrows, 
until  Col.  .Raymond  grew  so  ill  that  a  telegram  was 


GUARDIAN     A3TD     WARD.  19 

despatched  to  the  truant  boy,  bidding  him  hasten  if 
he  would  see  his  father  again  alive. 

"That  will  bring  him,"  the  old  man  said,  while  the 
big  tears  rolled  down  his  wrinkled  face.  •'  He'll  be 
here  in  a  few  days,"  and  he  asked  that  his  bed  might 
be  moved  near  the  window,  where,  propped  upon  pil- 
lows, he  watched  with  childish  impatience  for  the 
coming  of  his  boy. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FATHER       AND       SON. 

A  TELEGRAM  from  Frederic,  who  was  coming  home 
at  last  1  He  would  be  there  that  very  day,  and  the 
inmates  of  Redstone  Hall  were  thrown  into  a  state  of 
unusual  excitement.  Old  Dinah  in  jaunty  turban  and 
clean  white  apron,  bustled  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
dining  room,  and  from  the  dining  room  back  to  the 
kitchen,  jingling  her  huge  bunch  of  keys  with  an  air 
of  great  importance,  and  kicking  from  under  her  feet 
any  luckless  black  baby  which  chanced  to  be  in  her 
way,  making  always  an  exception  in  favor  of  "  Victo- 
ria Eugenia,"  who  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  her- 
self, and  would  one  day  call  her  "gran'mam."  Dinah 
was  in  her  element,  for  nothing  pleased  her  better 
than  the  getting  up  a  "  tip  top  dinner,"  and  fully 
believing  that  Frederic  had  been  half  starved  in  a  land 
where  they  didn't  have  "hoe-cake  and  bacon  three 
times  a  day,  she  determined  to  give  him  one  full  meal, 
such  as  would  make  his  stomach  ache  for  three  full 
hours  at  least  ! 

Mr.  Raymond,  too,  was  better  than  usual  to-day, 
and  at  his  post  by  the  window  \vatched  eagerly  the 
distant  turn  in  the  road  where  the  stage  would  first 
appear/  In  her  chamber,  Marian  was  busy  with  her 
toilet,  trying  the  effect  of  dress  after  dress,  and  at 
Alice's  suggestion  deciding  at  last  upon  a  pale  blue, 
which  harmonized  well  with  her  fair  complexion. 

"  Frederic  likes  blue,    I  know,"   she   thought,   aa 


FATHER    AND    SON.  21 

she  remembered  having  heard  him  admire  a  dress  of 
that  color  worn  by  a  young  lady  who  had  once  visited 
at  Redstone  Hall. 

Dinah,  when  consulted  as  to  the  best  method  of 
making  red  hair  dark,  had  strongly  recommended 
"possum  ile  and  sulphur,  scented  with  some  kind  of 
essence ;"  but  to  this  dye  Marian  did  not  take  kindly. 
She  preferred  that  her  hair  should  retain  its  natural 
color,  and  falling  as  it  did  in  soft  curls  around  her 
face  and  neck,  it  was  certainly  not  unbecoming.  Her 
toilet  was  completed  at  last — Alice's  little  hands  had 
decided  that  it  was  perfect — the  image  reflected  by 
the  mirror  was  far  from  being  ordinary-looking,  and 
secretly  wondering  if  Frederic  would  not  think  her 
tolerably  pretty,  Marian  sat  down  to  await  his  coming. 
She  had  not  been  seated  long  when  Alice's  quick  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  the  distant  stage,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Marian  from  behind  the  half-closed  shutter, 
was  watching  the  young  man  as  he  came  slowly  up 
the  avenue,  which  led  from  the  highway  to  the  house. 
His  step  was  usually  bounding  and  rapid,  but  now  he 
lingered  as  if  unwilling  to  reach  the  door. 

"  Tis  because  of  his  father,"  thought  Marian.  "  He 
fears  he  may  be  dead." 

But  not  of  his  father  alone  was  Frederic  thinking. 
It  was  not  pleasant  coming  home  ;  for  aside  from  the 
fear  that  his  father  might  really  die,  was  a  dread  of 
what  that  father  might  ask  him  to  do.  For  Marian  as 
a  sister,  he  had  no  dislike,  for  he  knew  she  possessed 
many  gentle,  womanly  virtues,  but  from  the  thoughts 
of  making  her  his  wile  he  instinctively  shrank.  Only 
one  had  the  shadow  of  a  claim  to  bear  that  relation  to 
him,  and  of  her  he  was  thinking  that  September  after- 
noon as  he  came  up  the  walk.  She  was  poor,  he 
knew,  and  the  daughter  ot'his  landlady,  who  claimed 
$  distant  relationship  with  his  father;  but  she  was 
beautiful,  and  a  queen  might  covet  her  stately  bear- 
ing, and  polished,  graceful  manner.  Into  her  heart 
he  had  never  looked,  for  satisfied  with  the  fair  exte- 


2'2  FATHKR    AND    SON. 

rior,  lie  failed  to  see  the  treachery  lurking  in  her  large 
black  eyes,  or  yet  to  detect  the  tierce,  stormy  passions, 
which  had  a  home  within  her  breast. 

Isabella  Iluntington,  or  "  Cousin  Bell,"  as  he  called 
her,  was  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  artful,  and  dur- 
ing the  year  that  Frederic  Raymond  had  been  an 
inmate  of  her  mother's  family,  she  had  succeeded  in 
so  completely  infatuating  the  young  man  that  now 
there  was  to  him  but  one  face  in  the  world,  and  that 
in  fancy  shone  upon  him  even  when  it  was  far  away. 
He  had  never  said  to  her  that  he  loved  her,  for  though 
often  tempted  so  to  do,  something  had  always  inter- 
posed between  them,  bidding  him  wait  until  he  knew 
her  better.  Consequently  he  was  not  bound  to  her 
by  words,  but  he  thought  it  very  probable  that  she 
would  one  day  be  his  wife,  and  as  he  drew  near  to 
Redstone  Hall,  he  could  not  forbear  feeling  a  glow  of 
pride,  fancying  how  she  would  grace  that  elegant 
mansion  as  its  rightful  mistress.  Of  Marian,  too,  he 
thought — harsh,  bitter  thoughts,  mingled  with  softer 
emotions  as  he  reflected  that  she  possibly  knew 
nothing  of  his  father's  plan.  He  pitied  her,  he  said, 
for  if  his  father  died,  she  would  be  alone  in  the  world. 
After  what  had  passed,  it  would  hardly  be  pleasant 
for  him  to  have  her  there  where  he  could  see  .-her 
every  day ; — she  might  not  be  agreeable  to  Isabel 
either,  and  he  should  probably  provide  for  her  hand- 
somely and  have  her  live  somewhere  else — at  a  fash- 
ionable boarding  school,  perhaps  I 

Magnanimous   Frederic  !     He  was   growing   very 
generous,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  the  long  piazza, 
Marian  Lindsey  was  comfortably  disposed  of  in   the 
third  story  of  some  seminary  far  away  from  Redston 
Hall  ! 

The  meeting  between  the  father  and  son  was  an  af- 
fecting one — the  former  sobbing  like  a  child,  and 
asking  of  the  latter  why  he  had  tarried  so  long.  The 
answer  to  this  question  was  that  Irederic  had  been 
absent  from  New  Haven  for  three  weeks,  and  that  Is- 


FATHER    AND    SON.  23 

abel,  who  took  charge  of  his  letters,  neglected  to  for- 
ward the  one  written  by  Marian.  At  the  mention  of 
Isabel,  the  old  man's  cheek  flushed,  and  he  said, 
impatiently,  "  the  neglect  was  an  unpardonable  one, 
for  it  bore  on  its  face  '  In  haste.'  Perhaps,  though, 
she  did  it  purposely,  hoping  thus  to  keep  you  from 
me." 

Instantly  Frederic  warmed  up  in  Isabel's  defence, 
eaying  she  was  incapable  of  a  mean  act.  He  doubted 
whether  she  had  observed  the  words  "In  haste"  at 
all,  and  if  she  did  she  only  withheld  it  for  the  sake  of 
saving  him  from  anxiety  as  long  as  possible. 

At  this  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  little  uncer- 
tain feet  ruear  the  door,  and  Alice  groped  her  way 
into  the  room.  She.  was  a  fair,  sweet-faced  little  child, 
and  taking  her  upon  his  knee,  Frederic  kissed  her 
affectionately,  arid  asked  her  many  questions  as  to 
what  she  had  done  since  he  was  home  six  months 
before.  Seldom  before  had  he  paid  her  so  much  atten- 
tion, and  feeling  anxious  that  Marian  should  be  simi- 
larly treated,  the  little  girl,  after  answering  his  ques- 
tions, said  to  him,  coaxingly, 

"  Won't  you  kiss  Marian,  too,  when  she  comes 
down  ?  She's  been  ever  so  long  dressing  herself  and 
trying  to  look  pretty." 

Instantly  the  eyes  of  the  father  and  son  met — those 
of  the  former  expressive  of  entreaty,  while  those  of 
the  latter  flashed  with  defiance. 

"  Go  for  Marian,  child,  and  tell  her  to  come  here," 
said  Mr.  Kaymond. 

Alice  obeyed,  and  as  she  left  the  room,  Frederic 
said  bitterly,  "  I  see  she  is  leagued  with  you.  JL  had 
thought  better  of  her  than  that." 

u  No,  she  isn't,"  cried  the  father,,  fearing  that  his 
favorite  project  was  in  danger.  "I  merely  suggested 
it  to  her  once — only  once." 

Frederic  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  rustling  of 
female  garments  announced  the  approach  of  Marian. 
To  Colonel  Raymond  she  was  handsome  then,  as  with 


24  .  FATHER    AND    SON. 

a  highfened  bloom  upon  her  cheek  and  a  bashful  light 
in  her  deep  blue  eyes,  she  entered  timidly  and  offered 
her  hand  to  Frederic.  But  to  the  jealous  young  man 
she  was  merely  a  plain,  ordinary  country  girl,  bear- 
ing no  comparison  to  the  peerless  Isabel.  Still  he 
greeted  her.  kindly,  addressed  to  her  a  few  trivial  re- 
remarks,  and  then  resumed  his  conversation  with  lit- 
tle Alice,  who,  feeling  that  matters  were  going  wrong, 
rolled  her  eyes  often  and  anxiously  toward  the  spot 
where  she  knew  Marian  was  sitting — and  when  at  last 
the  latter  left  the  room,  she  said  to  Frederic,  "Isn't 
Marian  pretty  in  her  bine  dress,  with  all  those  curls  ? 
There  are  twenty  of  them,  for  I  heard  her  count  them. 
Say  she  is  pretty,  so  I  can  tell  her  and  make  her 
feel  good." 

Frederic  would  not  then  have  admitted  that  Marian 
was  pretty,  even  had  he  thought  so,  and  biting  his 
lip  with  vexation,  he  replied,  UI  do  not  particularly 
admire  blue,  and  I  detest  cork-screw  curls."' 

Marian  was  still  in  the  lower  hall,  and  heard  both 
the  question  and  the  answer.  Darting  up  the  stairs, 
she  ilew  to  her  chamber,  and  throwing  herself  upon 
the  bed,  burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears.  All  in 
vain  had  she  dressed  herself  for  Frederic  Raymond's 
eye — curling  her  hair  in  twenty  curls,  even  as  Alice 
had  said.  lie  hated  blue — he  hated  curls — cork-screw 
curls  particularly.  What  could  he  mean  ?  She  never 
heard  the  term  thus  applied  before.  It  must  have 
some  reference  to  their  color,  and  clutching  at  her 
luxuriant  tresses  she  would  have  torn  them  from  her 
head,  had  not  a  little  childish  hand  been  laid  upon 
hers,. and  Alice's  soothing  voice  murmured  in  her  ear, 
"  Don't  cry,  Marian  ;  I  wouldn't  care  for  him.  He's 
just  as  mean  as  he  can  be,  and  if  I  owned  Redstone 
Hall,  I  wouldn't  let  him  live  here,  would  you?" 

"  Yes — no — I  don't  know,"  sobbed  Marian.  "  I 
don't  own  Redstone  Hall.  I  don't  own  anything,  and 
I  most  wish  I  was  dead." 

Alice  was  unaccustomed  to  such  a  burst  of  passion, 


FATHER    AND    SON.  .  25- 

and  was  trying  to  frame  some  reply,  when  the  dinner 
bell  rang,  and  lifting  up  her  head,  Marian  said,  "  Go 
down,  Alice,  and  tell  Dinah  I  can't  come,  and  if  she 
insists,  tell  her  I  won't  /" 

Alice  knew  she  was  in  earnest,  and  going  below  she 
delivered  the  message  to  Dinah  in  the  presence  of 
Frederic,  who  silently  took  his  seat  at  the  table. 

"  For  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  what's  happened  her 
now  ?"  said  Dinah,  casting  a  rueful  glance  at  Marian's 
empty  chair. 

"  She's  crying,"  returned  Alice,  "  and  she  dislikes 
somebody  in  this  room  awfully  ;  'taint  you,  Dinah, 
nor  'taint  me,"  and  the  bfind  eyes  flashed  indignantly 
at  Frederic,  who  smiled  quietly  as  he  replied,  "Thank 
you,  Miss  Alice." 

Alice  made  no  reply,  and  the  dinner  proceeded  in 
silence.  After  it  was  over,  Frederic  returned  to  his 
father,  who  ha4  been  nerving  himself  for  the  task 
he  had  to  perform,  and  which  he  determined  should 
be  done  at  once.- 

"Lock  the  door,  Frederic,"  he  said,  "  and  then  sit 
by  me  while  I  say  to  you  what  I  have  so  long  wished 
to  say." 

With  a  lowering  brow  Frederic  complied,  and  seat- 
ing himself  near  to  his  father,  he  folded  his  arms  and 
said,  "  Go  on,  I  am  ready  now  to  hear — but  if  it  is  of 
Marian  you  would  speak,  I  will  spare  you  that  trou- 
ble, father,"  and  Frederic's  voice  was  milder  in  its 
tone.  "I  have  always  liked  Marian  very  much  as  a 
sister,  and  if  it  so  chances  that  you  are  .taken  from 
us,  I  will  be  the  best  of  brothers  to  her.  I  \vill  care 
for  her  and  see  that  she  does  not  want.  Let  this  sat- 
isfy you,  father,  for  I  cannot  marry  her.  I  do  not 
love  her,  for  I  love  another ;  one  compared  to  whom 
Marian  is  as  the  night  to  the  day.  Let  me  tell'you  of 
Isabel,  father,"  and  Frederic's  voice  was  still  aofter 
in  its  tone. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  and  answ3ied  mourn- 
fully, "  No,  Frederic,  were  she  as  fair  as  the  morning 

2 


.2(5  FATHEK    AND    SOW. 

I  could  not  wish  her  to  be  your  wife.  I  have  never 
told  .you  before,  but  I  once  received  an  anonymous 
letter  concerning  this  same  Isabel,  saying  she  was 
treacherous  and  deceitful,  and  would  lead  you  on  to 
ruin." 

"  The  villain  !  It  was  Rudolph's  doings,"  muttered 
Frederic  ;  then  in  a  louder  tone  he  said,  "  I  can  ex- 
plain that,  I  think.  'When  Isabel  was  quite  young, 
she  wras  engaged  conditionally  to  Rudolph  McVicar, 
a  worthless  fellow  whom  she  has  since  discarded.  He 
is  a  jealous,  malignant  creature,  and  has  sworn  to  be 
revenged.  He  wrote  that  letter,  I  am  sure.  It  is  like 
him." 

"It  may  be,"  returned  the  father,  "but  I  distrust 
this  Isabel.  Her  mother,  as  you  are  aware,  is  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  mine.  I  know  her  well,  and  though  I 
never  "saw  the  daughter,  I  am  sure  she  is  selfish,  am- 
bitious, deceitful  and  proud,  while  Marian  is  so 
good." 

"  Marian  is  a  mere  child,"  interrupted  Fred- 
eric. 

"Almost  sixteen,"  rejoined  the  father,  "and  before, 
you  marry  her  she  will  be  older  still." 

"  Yes,  yes,  much  older,"  thought  Frederic,  contin- 
uing aloud,  "  Listen  to  reason,  father.  I  certainly  do 
not  love  Marian,  neither  do  I  suppose  that  she  loves 
me.  Now  if  you  have  our  mutual  good  at  heart,  you 
cannot  desire  a  marriage  which  would  surely  result  in. 
wretchedness  to  both." 

"  I  have  thought  of  all  that,"  returned  the  father. 
"A  few  kind  words  from  you  would  win  Marian's 
love  at  once,  and  when  once  won  she  would  be  to  you 
a  faithful,  loving  wife,  whom  you  would  ere  long 
learn  to  prize.  You  cannot  treat  any  woman  badly, 
Frederic,  much  less  Marian.  I  know  you  would  be 
happy  with  her,  and  should  desire  the'  marriage  even 
though  it  could  not  save  me  from  dishonor  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world." 

"Father,"   said   Frederic,    turning    slightly    pale, 


FATHER    AND    SON.  27 

"  what  do  you  mean  ?  Yon  have  in  your  letters  hint- 
ed of  a  wrong  done  to  somebody.  Was  it  to  Marian  « 
If  so,  do  not  seek  to  sacrifice  my  happiness,  but  make 
amends  in  some  other  way.  Will  money  repair  tho 
wrong?  If  so, -give  it  to  her,  even  to  half  your  for- 
tune, and  leave  me  alone." 

He  had  touched  a  tender  point,  and  raising  himself 
in  bed,  the  old  man  gasped,  "  Yes,  yes,  boy — but  you 
have  no  money  to  give  her.  Redstone  Hull  is  not 
'mine,  not  yours,  but  hers.  Tho?e  houses  in  Louisville 
are  hers — not  mine,  not  yours.  Everything  you  see 
around  yon  is  hers — all  hers ;  and  if  you  refuse  her, 
Frederic — hear  me — if  you  refuse  Marian  Lindsey, 
strict  restitution  must  be  made,  and  you  will  be  a 
beggar  as  it  were.  Marry  her,  and  as  her  husband 
you  will  keep  it  all  and  save  me  from  disgrace. — 
Choose,  Frederic,  choose." 

Mr.  Raymond  was  terribly  excited,  and  the  great 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  thickly  upon  his  forehead, 
and  trickled  from  beneath  his  hoary  hair. 
,  "  Is  he  going  mad !"  thought  Frederic,  his  own 
heart  throbbing  with  a  nervous  fear  of  coming  evil, 
but  ere  he  could  speak  his  father  continued,  "  Hear 
my  story,  and"  you  will  know  how  I  came  by  these- 
ill-gotten  gains,"  and  he  glanced  around  the  richly 
furnished  room.  "  You  know  1  was  sent  to  England, 
or  1  could  not  have  gone,  for  1  had  no  means  with 
which  to  meet  the  necessary  expenses.  In  the  streets 
of  Liverpool  I  first  saw  Marian's  father,  and  I  mistook 
him  for  a  beggar.  Again  I  met  him  on  board  ship, 
and  making  his  acquaintance,  found  him  to  be  a  man 
of  no  ordinary  intellect.  There  was  something  about 
him  which  pleased  me,  and  when  he  became  ill,  I 
cared  for  him  as  for  a  friend.  The  night  he  died  we 
were  alone,  and  he  confided  to  me  his  history.  He 
was  an  only  child,  and,  orphaned  at  an  early  age,  be- 
came an  inmate  of  one  of  those  dens  of  cruelty — « 
those  schools  on  the  Dotheboys  plan.  From  this 
bondage  he  escaped  at  last,  and  then  for  more  than 


28  FATHER     AND    SON. 

thirty  years  employed  his  time  in  making  and  saving 
money.  He  was  a  miser  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
and  though"  counting  his  money  by  thousands — yes, 
by  tens  of  thousands,  he  starved  himself  almost  to 
death.  No  one  suspected  his  wealth — not  even  his 
young  wife,  Mary  Grey,  whom  he  married  three  years 
before  I  met  him,  and  who  died  when  Marian  was 
born.  She,  too,  had  been  an  only  child  and  an  or- 
phan ;  and  as  in  England  there  was  none  to  care  for 
him  or  his,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  emigrating  to 
America,  and  there  lavishing  his  stores  of  gold  on 
Marian.  She  should  be  a  lady,  he  -said,  and  live  in 
a  palace  fit  for  a  queen.  But  death  overtook  him, 
aiid  to  me  he  entrusted  his  child  with  all  his  money 
— some  in  gold,  and  some  in  bank  notes.  And  when 
he  was  dying,  Frederic,  and  the  perspiration  was  cold 
on  his  brow,  he  made  me  lay  my  hand  there  and 
ewear  to  be  faithful  to  my  trust  as  guardian  of  Ins 
child.  For  her,  and  for  her  alone,  the  money  must 
be  used.  .But,  Frederic,  I  broke  that  oath.  The  Ray- 
monds are  noted  for  their  love  of  gain,  and  when  the 
Englishman  was  buried  in  the  sea,  the  tempter  whis- 
pered that  the  avenue  to  wealth,  which  I  so  long  had 
coveted,  was  open  now — that  no  one  knew  or  would 
ever  know  of  the  miser's  fortune  ;  and  I  yielded.  I 
guarded  the  bag  wrhere  the  treasure  was  hidden 
with,  more  than  a  miser's  vigilance,  and  I  chuckled 
\vith  delight  when  I  found  it  far  more  than  he  had 
said." 

"  Oh,  my  father,  my  father !"  ^groaned  Frederic, 
covering  his  white  face  with  his  hands,  for  he  knew 
now  that  he  was  penniless. 

"  Don't  curse  me,  boy,"  hoarsely  whispered  the  old 
man  ;  "  Marian  will  not.  She'll  forgive  me — for  Ma- 
rian is  an  angel  ;  but  I  must  hasten.  You  remember 
how  I  grew  gradually  rich,  and  people  talked  of  my 
good  luck.  Very  cautiously  I  used  the  money  at  tirst 
so  as  not  to  excite  suspicion,  but  when  I  came  to  Ken- 
tucky, where  I  was  not  known,  I  was  less  fearful,  and 


FATHER    AND    SON.        .  29 

launched  into  speculations,  until  now  they  say  I  am 
the  wealthiest  man  in  Franklin  county.  But  it's  hers 
— it's  Marian's — every  cent  of  it  is  hers.  Your  edu- 
cation was  paid  for  with  her  money ;  all  you  have  and 
are  you  owe  to  Marian  Lindsey,  who,  by  every  law  of 
the  land,  is  the  heiress  of  Kedstone  Hall." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  trembling  with  emotion, 
Frederic  said,  "Is  there  nothing  ours,  father?  Our 
old  home  on  the  Hudson?  That,  surely,  is  not 
hers  ?" 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  the  father;  "the  old 
shell  was  mine,  but  when  I  brought  Marian  home,  it 
was  not  worth  a  thousand  dollars,  and  it  was  all  I  had 
in  the  world.  Her  money  has  made  it  ivhat  it  is.  I 
always  intended  to  tell  her  when  .  V:  was  old  enough 
to  understand,  but  as  time  went  uy  I  shrank  from  it, 
particularly  when  I  saw  how  much  you  prized  the 
luxuries  which  money  alone  can  buy,  and  how  that 
money  kept  you  in  the  proud  position  you  occupy. — 
But  it  has  killed  me,  Frederic,  before  my  time — and 
now  at  the  last  do  you  wonder  that  I  wish  restitution 
to  be  made  ?  I  would  save  you  from  poverty,  and 
my  name  from  disgrace,  by  marrying  you  to  Marian. 
She  mujt  know  the  truth,  of  course,  for  in  no  other 
way  can  my  conscience'  be  satisfied — but  the  world 
would  still  be  kept  in  ignorance." 
S  "  And  if  I  do  not  marry  her,  oh,  father,  must  it 
come — poverty,  disgrace,  everything?" 

The  young  man's  voice  was  ahi;ost  heart-broken  in 
its  tone,  but  the  old  man  wavered  not  as  he  answered 
— "  Yes,  Frederic,  it  must  come.  If  you  refuse,  I 
must  deed  it  all  to  her.  The  lawyer,  of  course,  must 
know  the  cause  of  so  strange  a  proceeding,  and  I  have 
no  faith  that  he  would  keep  the  secret,  even  if  Marian 
should.  I  left  it  in  writing  in  case  you  did  not  come, 
and  I  gave  you  my  dying  curse  it' you  failed  of  resto- 
ring to  Marian  her  fortune.  But  you  are  here — you 
have  heard  my  story,  and  it  remains  for  you  to  choose. 
You  have  never  taken  care  of  yourself — have  never 


SO  FATHER    AND    SON. 

been  taught  to  think  it  necessary — and  how  can  yon 
struggle  with  poverty.  Would  that  Isabel  join  her 
destiny  with  one  who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head  ?" 

"  Stop,  father !  in  mercy  stop,  ere  you  drive  me 
mad!"  and  starting  to  his 'feet  Frederic  paced  the 
floor  wildly,  distractedly. 

A  dark  cloud  had  fallen  upon  him,  and  turn  which 
way  he  would  it  enveloped  him  in  its  dark  folds.  lie 
knew  his  father  would  keep  his  word,  and  he  desired 
that  he  should  do  so.  It  was  right,  and  he  shrank 
from  any  further  injustice  to  the  orphan,  Marian,  with 
whom  he  had  suddenly  changed  places.  He  was  the 
dependent  now,  and  hers  the  hand  that  fed  him. — 
Frederic  Raymond  was  proud,  and  the  remembrance 
of  his  father's  words,  "  IJer  money  paid  for  your  edu- 
cation ;  all  you  have  and  are,  you  owe  to  Marian 
Lindsey,"  stung  him  to  his  inmost  soul.  Still  ho 
could  not  make  her  his  wife.  It  would  be  a  greater 
wrong  than  ever  his  father  had  done  to  her.  And  yet 
if  he  had  never  seen  Isabel,  never  mingled  in  the  soci- 
ety of  beautiful  and  accomplished  women,  he  might, 
perhaps,  have  learned  to  love  the  gentle  little  girl, 
whose  presence,  he  knew,  made  the  life  and  light  of 
Redstone  Hall.  But  he  could  not  do  it  now*  and  go- 
ing up  to  his  father,  he  said  hesitatingly,  as  it'  it  cost 
a  bitter>  agonized  struggle  to  give  up  all  his  wealth, 
"I  cannot  do  it,  father  ;  neither  would  Marian  wish 
it  if  she  knew.  Send  for  her  now,"  he  continued,  as 
a  new  idea  flashed  upon  him,  "tell  her  all,  here  in  my 
presence,  and  let  her  choose  for  me ;  but  stay,"  he 
added,  quickly,  coloring  crimson  at  the  unmanly  self- 
ishness which  had  prompted  the  sending  for  Marian, 
a  selfishness  which  whispered  that  the  generous  girl 
would  share  her  fortune  with  him  ;  "  stay,  we  will  not 
send  for  her.  I  can  decide  the  matter  alone." 

"  Not  now,"  returned  the  father.  '•  Wait  until  to- 
morrow at  nine  o'clock,  if  you  do  not  come  to  me 
then,  I  shall  send  for  Lawyer  Gibson,  and  the  writ- 


FATHER    AND    SON.  31 

ings  will  be  drawn.  I  give  yon  nhtil  that  time  to 
decide  ;  and  now  leave  me,  for  I  would  rest." 

He  motioned  toward  the  door,  and  glad  to  escape 
from  an  atmosphere  which  seemed  laden  with  grief, 
Frederic  went  out  into  the  open  air,  and  Col.  Ray- 
mond was  again  alone.'  His  first  thought  was  of  the 
letter — the  one  intended  for  his  son.  He  could  destroy 
that  now — for  lie  would  not  that  Marian  should  ever 
know  what  it  contained.  She  might  not.be  Frederic's 
wife,  but  he  would  save  her  from  unnecessary  pain ; 
and  exerting  all  his  strength,  he  tottered  to  his  private 
drawer,  and  took  the  letter  in  his  hand.  It  was  grow- 
ing very  dark  within  the  room,  and  holding  it  up  to 
the  fading  light,  the  dim-eyed  61d  man,  read,  or 
thought  he  read,  "For  my  Son." 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  one,"  he  whispered — "the  other 
reads  "  For  Marian,'  "  and  hastening  back  to  his  bed- 
room he  threw  upon  the  tire  burning  in  the  grate,  the 
letter,  but,  alas,  the  wrong  one — for  in  the  drawer 
still  lay  the  fatal  missive  which  would  one  day  break 
poor  Marian's  heart,  and  drive  her  forth  a  wanderer 
from  the  home  she  loved  so  well. 

That  night  Frederic,  did  not  come  down  to  supper. 
He  was  weary  with  his  rapid  journey,  he  said,  and 
would  rather  rest.  So  Marian,  who  had  dried  her 
tears  and  half  forgotten  their  cause,  sat  down  to-  her 
solitary  tea,  little  dreaming  of  the  stormy  scene  which 
the  walls  of  Frederic's  chamber  looked  upon  that 
night.  All  through  the  dreary  hours  he  walked  the 
floor,  and  when  the  morning  light  came  struggling 
through  the  windows,  it  found  him  pale,  haggard,  and 
older  by  many  years  than  he  had  been  the  day  before. 
Still  he  was  undecided.  "-Love  in  a  cottage"  with 
Isabel,  looked  fair  enough  in  the  distance,  but  where 
could  he  get  the  "cottage?"  To  be  sure,  he  was 
going  through  the  form  of  studying  law,  but  he  had 
never  looked  upon  the  profession  as  a  means  of  pro" 
caring  his  livelihood,  neither  did  he  see  any  way  by 
which  he  could  pursue  his  studies,  unless,  indeed,  he 


32  FATHER    AND    SON. 

worked  to  defray  the  expense.  He  might,  perhaps, 
saw  wood.  Ben  Gardiner  did  in  college — Ben  with 
the  threadbare  coat,  cowhide  boots,  smiling  lace  and 
best  lessons  in  the  class.  Ben  liked  it  well  enough, 
and  so,  perhaps,  would  he  !  He  held  his  hands  up  to 
the  light;  they  were  soft  and  white  as  a  girl's.  They 
would  blister  with  the  iirst  cut.  He  couldn't  saw 
wood — he  couldn't  do  anything.  And  would  Isabel 
love  him  still  when  she  knew  how  poor  he  was.  It 
seemed  unjust  to  doubt  her,  but  he  did,  and  he 
remembered  sundry  rumors  he  had  heard  touching 
her  ambitious,  selfish  nature.  Anon,  too,  there  crept 
into  his  heart  pleasant  memories  of  a  little,  quiet  girl, 
who  had  always  sought  to  do  him  good,  and  minis- 
tered to  his  comfort  in  a  thousand  unobtrusive  ways. 
And  this  was  Marian,  the  one  his  father  would  have 
him  marry  ;  and  why  didn't  he?  when  the.  marrying 
her  would  insure  him  all  the  elegances  of  life  to 
which  he  had  been  accustomed,  and  which  he  prized 
BO  highly.  She  was  a  child  }7et ;  he  could  mold  her 
to  his  will  and  make  her  what  he  pleased.  She  might 
be  handsome  some  time.  There  was  certainly  room 
for  improvement.  But  no,  she  would  never  be  aught 
save  the  plain,  unpolished  Marian,  wholly  unlike  the 
beautiful  picture  he  had  formed  of  Redstone  Hall's 
proud  mistress.  He  could  not  marry  her,  he  would 
not  marry  her,,  and  then  he  went  back  to  the  ques- 
tion, "  What  shall  I  do,  if  I  don't?" 

As  his  father  had  said,  the  Raymonds  were  lovers 
of  wealth,  and  this  weakness  Frederic  possessed  to  a 
great  degree.  Indeed,  it  was  the  foundation  of  all  his 
other,  faults,  making  him  selfish  and  sometimes  over- 
bearing. As  yet  he  was  not  worthy  to  be  the  husband 
of  one  as  gentle  and  good  as  Marian,  but  he  was  pass- 
ing through  the  fire,  and  the*  flames  which  burned  so 
fiercely  would  purify  and  make  him  better.  He  heard 
the  clock  strike  eight,  and  a  moment  after  breakfast 
was  announced. 

'•I  am  not  ready  yet;  tell  Marian  not  to  wait,"  was 


FATHER    AND    SON.  33 

the  message  he  gave  the  servant ;  and  so  another  hour 
passed  by,  and  heard  the  clock  strike  nine. 

His  hour  was  up,  but  he  could  not  yet  decide.  lie 
walked  to  the  window  and  looked  down  on  his  home, 
which  never  seemed  so  beautiful  before  as  on  that 
September  morning.  He  could  stay  there  if  he  chose, 
for  he  felt  sure  he  could  win  Marian's  love  if  he  tried. 
And  then  he  wondered  if  his  life  would  not  be  made 
happier  with  the  knowledge  that  he  had  obeyed  hi? 
father's  request,  and  saved  his  name  from  dishonor. 
There  was  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  upon  the  graveled 
road.  It  was  the  negro  Jake,  and  he  was  going  for 
Lawyer  Gibson. 

llapidly  another  hour  went  by,  and  then  he  heard 
the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  again,  but  this  time  there 
were  two  who  rode,  Jake  and  the  lawyer.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  latter  was  at  the  door,  and  the  sound  of  his 
feet,  as  he  strode  through  the  lower  hall,  went  to  the 
heart  of  the  listening  young  man  like  bolts  of  ice.  He 
heard  a  servant  call  Marian  and  say  that  his  fa  the  i* 
wanted  her;  some  new  idea  had  entered  the  sick 
man's  head.  He  had  probably  decided  to  tell  her  all 
before  he  died,  but  it  was  not  too  late  to  prevent  it, 
the  young  man  thought ;  he  could  not  be  a  beggar, 
and  with  a  face  as  white  as  ashes,  and  limbs  which 
trembled  in  every  joint,  he  hurried  down  the  stairs, 
meeting  in  the  hall  both  Marian  and  the  lawyer. 

"  Go  back,"  he  whispered  to  the  former,  Inying  his 
hand  upon  her  shoulder  ;  "  I  would  see  my  father  first 
alone." 

Wonderingly  Marian  looked  inte  his  pale,  worn 
face  and  bloodshot  eyes ;  then  motioning  the  lawyer 
into  another  room,  she,  too,  followed  him  thither, 
Tv'hile  Frederic  sought  his  father's  bedside,  and  bend- 
ug  low  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  bewildered  and 
half-crazed  man  that  he  would  marry  the  Heiress  of 
Bedstone  Hall  I 


CHAPTER  III. 

DEATH      AT      REDSTONE      HALL. 

FOB  two  days  after  the  morning  of  which  we  hare 
written,  Colonel  Raymond  lay  in  a  kind  of  stupor 
from  which  he  would  rouse  at  intervals,  and  press- 
ing the  hand  of  his  son  who  watched  beside  him, 
he  would  whisper  faintly,  "  God  bless  you  for  ma- 
king your  old  lather  so  happy.  God  bless  you,  my 
darling  boy." 

And  Frederic,  as  often  as  he  heard  these  words, 
would  lay  his  aching  head  upon  the  pillow  and  try  to 
force  back  the  thoughts  which  continually  whispered 
to  him.  that  a  bad  promise  was  better  broken  than 
kept,  and  that  at  the  last  he  would  tell  Marian  all, 
and  throw  himself  upon  her  generosity.  Since  tho 
morning  when  he  made  the  fatal  promise  he  had  said 
but  little  to  her,  though  she  had  been  often  in  the 
room,  ministering  to  his  father's  comfort — and  once 
in  the  evening  when  he  looked  more  than  usually  pale 
and  weary,  she  had  insisted  upon  taking  his  place,  or 
sharing  at  least  ;n  his  vigils.  But  he  had  declined 
her  offer,  and  two  hours  later  a  slender  little  figure 
had  glided  noiselessly  into  the  room  and  placed  upon 
the  table  behind  him  a  waiter,  tilled  with  delicacies 
which  her  own  hand  had  prepared,  and  which  she 
knew  from  experience  would  be  needed  ere  the  long 
night  was  over.  He  did  not  turn  his  head  when  she 
came  in,  but  he  knew  whose  step  it  was  ;  and  in  his 
heart  he  thanked  her  for  her  thoughtfulness,  and  com- 


DEATH    AT   REDSTONE    HALL.  35 

pelled  himself  to  eat  what  she  had  brought  because  he 
knew  how  disappointed  she  would  be  if  in  the  morn- 
ing she  found  it  all  untouched. 

And  still  he  was  as  far  from  loving  her  now  as  he 
had  ever  been ;  and  on  the  second  night,  as  he  sat  by 
his  sleep'ing  father,  he  resolved,  come  what  might,  he 
would  retract  the  promise  made  under  such  excite- 
ment. "  When  father  wakes,  I'll  tell  him  I  cannot," 
he  said,  and  anxiously  he  watched  the  clock,  which 
pointed  at  last  to  midnight.  The  twelve  long  strokes 
rang  throngh  the  silent  room,  and  with  a  short,  quick 
gasp  his  father  woke. 

"Frederic,"  he  said,  and  in  his  voice  there  was  a 
tone  never  heard  there  before.  "  Frederic,  has  the 
light  gone  out,  or  why  is  it  so  dark  ?  Where  are  you, 
my  son  ?  I  cannot  see." 

"  Here,  father — here  I  am,"  and  Frederic  took  in 
his  the  shriveled  hand  which  was  cojd  with  approach- 
ing death.  '  * 

"  Frederic,  it  has  come  at  last,  and  I  am  going 
from  you  ;  but  before  I  go,  lay  your  hand  upon  my 
brow,  where  the  death  sweat  is  standing,  and  say 
again  what  you  said  two  daj'S  ago.  Say  you  will  make 
Marian  your  wife,  and  that  until  she  is  your  wife  she 
shall  not  know  what  I  have  done,  for  that  might  in- 
fluence her  decision.  The  letter  I  have  left  for  her  is 
in  my  private  drawer,  but  you  can  keep  the  ke^y. — 
Promise,  Frederic — promise  both,  for  I  am  going 
very  fast." 

Twice  Frederic  essayed  to  speak,  but  the  words  "I 
cannot"  died  on  his  lips,  and  again  the  faint  voice — 
fainter  than  when  it  spoke  before,  said,  "  Promise,  my 
boy,  and  save  the  name  of  Raymond  from  disho- 
nor !" 

It  was  in  vain  he  struggled  to  resist  his  destiny. — 
The  plead.ing  tones  of  his  dying  father  prevailed.  Isa- 
bel QantingtOB — Marian  Lindsey — Redstone  Hall — 
everything  seemed-  as  nought  compaied  with  that  fa- 


36  DEATH  AT  REDSTONE  HALL. 

ther's  wishes, .and  falling  on  his  knees  the  young  man 
said,  "  Heaven  helping  rne,  father,  I  will  do  both." 

"  And  as  you  have  made  me  happy,  so  may  you  bo 
happy  and  prospered  all  the  days  of  your  life,"  re- 
turned the  father,  laying  his  clammy  hand  upon  the 
brown  hair  of  his  son.  "Tell  Marian  that' dying  I 
blessed  her  with  more  than  a  father's  blessing,  for  she 
is  very  dear  to  me.  And  the  little  helpless  Alice — 
she  has  money  of  her  own,  but  she  must  still  livo 
with  you  and  Marian.  Be  kind  to  the  servants,  Fre- 
deric. Don't  part  with  a  single  one — and — and — can 
you  hear  me,  boy  ?  Keep  your  promise  as  you  hope 
for  heaven  hereafter." 

They  were  the  last  'words  the  old  man  ever  spoke 
• — and  when  at  last  Frederic  raised  his  head  he  knew 
by  the  white  face  lying  motionless  upon  the  pillow, 
that  he  was  with  the  dead.  The  household  was 
aroused,  and  crowding  round  the  door  the  negroes 
came,  their  noisy  outcries  grating  harshly  on  the' ear 
of  the  young  man,  who  felt  unequal  to  the  task  of 
stopping  them.  But  when  Marian  came,  a  few  low 
spoken  words  from  her  quieted  the  tumult,  and  those 
whose  services  were  not  needed  dispersed  to  the  kitch- 
en, where,  forgetful  of  their  recent  demonstrations  of 
grief,  they  speculated  upon  the  probable  result  of 
their  "  old  marster's  death,"  and  wondered  if  with 
the  new  one  they  should  lead  as  easy  a  life  as  they 
had  done  heretofore. 

The  next  morning  the  news  spread  rapidly,  not 
only  that  Colonel  Raymond  was  dead,  but  also  that 
he  had  died  without  a  will — this  last  piece  of  infor- 
mation being  given  by  Lawyer  Gibson,  who,  a  little 
disappointed  in  the  result  of  his  late  visit  to  Redstone 
Hall,  had  several  times  ii/  public  expressed  his  opin- 
ion that  it  was  all  the  work  of  Frederic,  who  wanted 
everything  himself,  and  feared  his  father  would  leave 
something  to  Marian  Lindsey.  This  seemed  very  pro- 
bable ;  and  in  the  same  breath,  with  which  they  cle- 
plored  the  loss  of  Colonel  .Raymond,  the  neighbors 


DEATH   AT  BEDSTONE   HALL.  37 

denounced  his  son  as  selfish,  and  avaricious.  Still  he 
was  now  the  richest  man  in  the  county,  and  it  would 
not  be  politic  to  treat  him  with  disrespect — so  they 
came  about  him  with  words  of  sympathy  and  offers 
of  assistance,  all  of  which  he  listened  to  abstracted- 
ly, and  when  they  asked  for  some  directions  as  to 
the  arrangements  for  the  burial,  he  answered,  "  I  do 
not  know — I  am  not  myself  to-day — but  go  to  Marian. 
I  will  abide  by  her  decision." 

So  to  Marian  they  went ;  and  hushing  her  own 
great  grief — for  she  mourned  for  the  departed  as  for 
a  well  loved  father — Marian  told  them  what  she 
thought  her  guardian  would  wish  that  they  should  do. 
It  is  not  customary  in  Kentucky  to  keep  the  dead  as 
long  as  at  the  North,  and  ere  the  sun  of  the  first  day 
was  low  in  the  west  a  grave  was  made  within  an  en- 
closure near  the  river  side,  where  the  cedar  and  the 
fir  were  growing,  and  when  the  sun  was  setting,  a 
long  procession  wound  slowly  down  the  terraced  walk, 
bearing  with  them  one  who  when  they  returned  came 
not  with  them,  buk  was  res-ting  quietly  where  the 
light  from  the  windows  of  his  former  home  could  fall 
upon  his  peaceful  grave. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

KEEPING      THE      PROMISE. 

FOTJR  weeks  had  passed  away  since  Colonel  Kay- 
mond  was  laid  to  rest.  The  negroes,  having  finished 
their  mourning  at  the  grave  and  at  church -on  the 
Sabbath  succeeding  the  funeral,  had  gone  back  to 
their  old  light-hearted  way  of  living,  and  outwardly 
there  were  no  particular  signs  of  grief  at  .Redstone 
Hall.  But  two  there  were  who  suffered  keenly,  and 
Buffered  all  the  more  that  neither  could  speak  to  the 
other  a  word  of  sympathy.  With  Alice  Marian 
wept  bitterly,  feeling  that  she  was  indeed  homeless 
and  friendless  in  the  wide  world.  From  Dinah  she 
had  heard  the  story  of  the  Will,  and  remembering 
the  events  of  that  morning  when  Lawyer  Gibson,  as 
she  supposed,  had  come  to  draw  it,  she  thought  it 
very  probable.  Still  this  did  not  trouble  her  one  half, 
so  much  as  the  studied  reserve  which  Frederic  mani- 
fested toward  her.  At  the  funeral  he  had  offered  her  his 
arm,  walking  with  her  to  the  grave  and  back  ;  but 
since  that  night  he  had  kept  aloof,  seeing  her  only  at 
the  table,  or  when  he  wished  to  ask  some  question 
which  she  alone  could  answer. 

In  the  first  days  of  her  sorrow  she  had  forgotten  the 
letter  which  her  guardian  had  left  for  her,  and  when 
she  did  remember  it  and  go  to.  the  private  drawer 
where  he  said  it  was,  she  found  the  drawer  locked. — 
Frederic  had  the  key,  of  course,  and  thinking  "that 
if  a  wrong  had  indeed  been  done  to  her,  he  knew  it, 
too,  she  waited  in  hopes  that  he  would  speak  of  it, 


KEEPING   THE    PKOMISE.  39 

and  perhaps  bring  her  the  letter.  But  Frederic  Ray- 
moml  had  sworn  to  keep  that  letter  from  her  yet 
awhile,  and  he  dared  not  break  his  vow.  On  the 
night  after  the  burial  he,  too,  had  gone  to  the. pri- 
vate drawer,  and,  taking  the  undirected  missive  in 
his  hand,  had  felt  strongly  tempted  to  break  its  seal 
and  read.  But  he  had  no  right  to  do  that,  he  said  ; 
all  that  was  required  of  him  was  to  keep  it  from  Ma- 
rian until  such  time  as  he  was  at  'liberty  to  let  her 
read  it.  So,  with  a  benumbed  sensation  at  his 
heart,  he  locked  the  drawer  and  left  the  room,  feeling 
that  his  own  destiny  was  fixed,  and  that  it  was  worse 
than  useless  JLQ  struggle  against  it.  He  could  not 
write  to  Isabel  yet,  but  he  wrote  to  her  mother,  tell- 
ing her  of  his  father's  death,  and  saying  he  did  not 
kuow  how  long  it  would  be  ere  tney  saw  him  again  at 
New  Haven.  This  done,  he  sat  down  in  a  kind  of  torpor, 
and  waited  for  circumstances  to  shape  themselves. — 
Marian  would  seek  for  her  letter,  he  thought,  and 
missing  the  key,  would  come  to  him,  and  then— ^oh, 
how  he  hoped  it  would  be  weeks  and  months  before 
she  came,  for  when  she  did  he  knew  he  must  tell  her 
why  it  was  withheld. 

Meantime,  Marian  waited  day  after  day  vainly 
wishing  that  he  would  speak  to  her  upon  the  sub- 
ject ;  but  he  did  not,  and  at  last,  four  weeks  after 
her  guardian's  death,  she  sought  the  library  again, 
but  found  the  drawer  locked  as  usual. 

"It  is  unjust  to  treat  me  so,"  she  said.  "The  let- 
ter is  mine,  and  I  have  a  right  to  read  it." 

Then,  as  she  recalled  the  conversation  which  had 
passed  between  hersulf  and  Colonel  Raymond  on  that 
night  when  he  first  hinted  of  a-  wrong,  she  wondered 
if  he  had  said  aught  to  Frederic  of  her.  Most  earn- 
estly she  hoped  not — and  yet  she  was  almost  certain 
that ;  iie  had,  and  this  was  why  Frederic  treated  her  so 
strangely.  "  He  hates  me,"  she  said  bitterly,  "  be- 
cause he  thinks  I  want  him — but  he  needn't,  for  I 
wouldn't  have  him  now,  even  if  he  knelt  at  ray  feet, 


40  KEEPING   THE   PROMISE. 

and  begged  of  me  to  be  his  wife ;  I'll  tell  him  so,  too, 
the  first  chance  I  get,"  and  sinking  into  the  large  arm 
chair  Marian  laid  her  head  upon  the  writing  desk  and 
wept. 

The  day  had  been  rainy  and  dark,  and  as  she  sat 
there  in  the  gathering  night  and  listened  to  the  low 
moan  of  the  October  wind,  she  thought  with  gloomy 
forebodings  of  the  future,  and  what  it  would  bring  to 
her. 

"  Oh,  it  is  dreadful  to  be  so  homeless — so  friend- 
less, so  poor,"  she  cried,  and  in  that  cry  there  was  a 
note  of  desolation  which  touched  a  chord  of  pity  in 
the  heart  of  him  who  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the 
door,  silently  watching  the  young  girl  as  she  battled 
with  her  stormy  grief. 

He  did  not  know  why  he  had  come  to  that  room, 
and  he  surely  would  not  have  come  had  he  expected 
to  find  her  there.  But  it  could  not  now  be  helped  ; 
he  \\as  there  with  her;  he  had  witnessed  her  sorrow, 
and  involuntarily  advancing  toward  her  lie  laid  his 
hand  lightly  upon  her  shoulder  and  said,  "Poor child, 
don't  cry  so  hard." 

She  seemed  to  him  a  little  girl,  and  as  such  he  had 
addressed  her ;  but  to  the  startled  Marian  it  mattered 
not  what  he  said — there  was  kindness  in  his  voice,  and 
lifting  up  her  face,  which  even  in  the  darkness  looked 
white  and  worn,  she  sobbed,  "  Oh,  Frederic,  you 
don't  hate  me,  then  ?" 

"  Hate  you,  Marian,"  he  answered,  "  of  course  not. 
What  put  that  idea  into  your  head  ?" 

"  Because — because  you  act  so  cold  and  strange, 
and  don't  come  near 'me  when  my  heart  is  aching  so 
hard  for  him — your  father." 

Frederic  made  no  reply,  and  resolving  to  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it,  Marian  continued,  "There's  nobody 
to  care  for  me  now,  and  I  wish  you  to  be  my  brother, 
just  as  you  used  to  be,  and  if  your  father  said  any 
thing  else  of  me  to  you  he  didn't  mean  it,  I  am  sure ; 
I  don't  at  any  rate,  and  I  want  you  to  forget  it  and  not 


KEEPING'  THE  PROMISE.  41 

hate  me  for  it.  I'll  go  away  from  Redstone  Hall  if 
yon  say  so,  but  you  mustn't  hate  me  for  what  I  could 
not  help.  Will  you,  Frederic  ?"  and  Marian's  voice 
was  again  choked  with  tears. 

She  had  stumbled  upon  the  very  subject  uppermost 
in  Frederic's  mind,  and  drawing  a  chair  near  to  her, 
he  said,  "  I  will  not  profess  to  be  ignorant  of  what  you 
mean,  Marian.  My  father  had  some  strange  fancies  at 
the  last,  but  for  these  you  are  not  to  blame.  Did  he 
say  nothing  to  you  of  a  letter?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  answered  Marian  quickly,  "  and  I've 
been  for  it  so  many  times.  Will  you  give  it  to  me  now, 
Frederic  ?  It's  mine,  you  know,"  and  Marian  looked 
at  him  wistfully. 

Frederic  hesitated  a  moment,  and  misappre- 
hending the  motive  of  his  hesitancy,  Marian  con- 
tinued, 

"  Do  not  fear  what  I  may  think.     He  said  a  wrong 
had  been  done  to  me,   but   if  it  has  not  affected  me' 
heretofore,  it  surely  will  not  now — and  I   loved    him 
well  enough  to  forgive  anything.     Let    me   have    the 
letter,  won't  you  ?" 

"Marian,"  and  Frederic  trembled  with  strong  emo- 
tion, "  the  night  my  father  died,  I  laid  my  hand  upon 
his  head  and  promised  that  you  should  not  see  that 
letter  until  you  were  a  bride." 

"  A  bride !"  Marian  exclaimed  passionately,  "  I 
shall  never  be  a  bride — never — -'certainly  not  yours  !" 
and  the  little  hands  worked  nervously  together,  while 
she  continued.  "  I  asked  you  to  forget  that  whim  of 
your  father's.  He  did  not  mean  it — he  would  not 
have  it  so,  and  neither  would  I,"  and  Frederic  Ray- 
mond could  almost  see  the  angry  flash  of  the  blue  eyea 
turned  so  defiantly  toward  him. 

Man-like  he  began  to  feel  some  interest  now  that 
there*  was  opposition,  and  to  her  exclamation  "  nei- 
ther would  I,"  he  replied  softly,  "  Not  if  I  wish  it, 
Marian  ?" 

The  tone  rather  than  the  words-  affected   the   young 


42  KEEPING   THE   PROMISE. 

girl,  thrilling  her  with  a  new-born  delight;  and  lay 
ing  her  hand  again  upon  the  desk,  she  sobbed 
afresh,  not  impetuously,  this  time,  but  steadily,  as  if 
the  crying  did  her  good.  Greatly  she  longed  for  him 
.to  speak  agnin,  but  lie  did  not.  He  was  waiting  for 
her,  and  drying  her  tears,  she  lifted  up  her  face,  and 
in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  demand  the  truth,  she 
said  :  "  Frederic,  do  you  wish  it?  Here,  almost  in  the 
room  where  your  father  died,  can  you  say  to  me  truly 
that  you  wish  me  to  be  your  wife  ?" 

It  was  a  perplexing  question,  and  Frederic  Ray- 
mond felt  that  he  was  dealing  falsely  with  her,  but 
he  made  to  her  the  only  answer  he  could — "  Men  sel- 
dom ask  a  woman  to  marry  them  unless  they  wish  it." 

"  I  know,"  returned  Marian,  "  but — do — would  you 
have  thought  of  it  if  your  father,  had  not  first  suggested 
it?" 

"  Marian,"  said  Frederic,  "  I  am  much  older  than 
yourself,  and  I  might' never  have  thought  of  marry- 
ing you.  He,  however,  gave  me  good  reasons  why  I 
should  wish  to  have  it  so — in  all  sincerity  I  ask  you 
to  be  my  wife.  Will  you,  Marian?  It  seerns  soon 
to  talk  of  these  things,  but  he  so  desired  it." 

In  her  bewilderment  Marian  fancied  he  had  said, 
"  I  do  wish  to  have  it  so,"  but  she  would  know  an- 
other thing,  and  not  daring  to  put  the  question  to  him 
direct,  she  said,  "Do  men  ever  wish  to  marry  one 
whom  they  do  not  love  ?" 

Frederic  understood  her  at  once,  and  for  a  moment 
felt  strongly  tempted  to  tell  her  the  truth,  for  in  that 
case  he  was  sure  she  would  refuse  to  listen  to  his  suit 
and  he  would  then  be  free,  but  his  father's  presence 
seemed  over  and  around  him,  while  Redstone  Hall 
was  too  fair  to  be  exchanged  for  poverty ;  and  so 
he  answered,  "  I  have  always  loved  you  as  a 
Bister,  and  in  time  I  will  Jove  you  as  you  deserve.  I 
will  be  kind  to  you,  Marian,  and  I  think  I  can  make 
TOU.  happy  " 

He  spoke  with  earnestness,  for  he  knew  he  was  de- 


ZEEPIXG   THIS   PROMISE.  43 

ceiving  the  young  girl,  and  in  liis  inmost  soul  he  de- 
termined to  repair  the  wrong  by  learning  to  love  her, 
as  she  said  :  , 

"  And  suppose  I  refuse  you,  what  then  ?" 

Marian  spoke  decidedly,  and  something  in  her  man- 
ner startled  Frederic,  who  now  that  he  had  gone  thus 
far,  did  not  care  to  be  thwarted. 

"  You  will  not  refuse  me,  I  am  sure,"  he  said. — • 
"  We  cannot  live  together  here  jnst  as  we  have  done, 
for  people  would  talk." 

"  I  can  go  away,"  said  Marian,  mournfully,  while 
Frederic  replied, 

"  No,  Marian,  if  you  will  not  be  my  wife,  /  must 
go  away;  Redstone  Hall  cannot  be  the  home  of  us 
both,  and  if  you  refuse  I  shall  go— soon,  very  soon." 

"  Won't  you  ever  come  back  I  asked  Marian,  with 
childish  simplicity  ;  but  ere  Frederic  could  answer, 
the  door  suddenly  opened  and  old  Dinah  appeared, 
exclaiming  as  her  eye  fell  upon  them,  "  For  the  dear 
Lord's  sake,  if  you  two  ain't  settin'  together  in  the 
dark,  when  I've  done  hunted  every whar  for  you,"  and 
Dinah's  face  wore  a  very  knowing  -look,  as  setting 
down  the  candle  she  departed,  muttering  something 
about  "  when  me  and  Philip  was  young." 

The  spell  was  broken  for  Marian,  and  starting  up, 
she  said,  "  I  cannot  talk  any  more  to-night.  I'll-  an- 
swer you  some  other,  time,"  and  she  hurried  into  the 
hall,  where  she  stumbled  upon  Dinah,  who  greeted 
her  with  "Ain't  you  two  kinder  hankerin'  arter  each 
other,  'case  if  you  be,  it's  the  sensiblest  thing  you  ever 
done.  Marster  Frederic  is  the  likeliest,  trimmest 
chap  in  Kentuck,  and  you've  got  an  uncommon  heap 
of  ^ense." 

Marian  made  no  reply  but  darted  up  the  stairs  to 
her  room,  where  she  could  be  alone  to  think.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  dream,  and  yet  she  knew  it  was  a 
reality.  Frederic  had  aeked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and 
though  she  had  said  to  herself  that  she  would  not  marry 
him  even  if  he  knelt  at  her  feet,  she  felt  vastly  like 


. 
KEEPING   THE   PBOMISE. 


revoking  that  decision  !  If  she  were  only  sure  he 
loved  her,  or  would  love  her  ;  and  then  she  recalled 
every  word  he  had  said,  wishing  she  could  have 
.ooked  into  his  face  and  seen  what  its  expression  was. 
She  did  not  think  of  the  letter  in  her  excitement.  — 
She  only  thought  of  Frederic's  question,  and  she 
longed  for  some  one  in  whom  she  could  confide. 
Alice,  who  always  retired  early,  was  already  asleep, 
and  as  her  soft  breathing  fell  on  Marian's  ear,  she 
said,  "Alice  is  much  wiser  than  children  usually  are 
at  six  and  a  half.  I  mean  to  tell  her,"  and,  stealing 
to  the  bedside,  she  whispered,  "  Alice,  Alice,  wake  up 
a  moment,  will  you  ?" 

Alice  turned  on  her  pillow,  and  when  sure  she  was 
awake,  Marian  said  impetuously,  "If  you  were  me, 
would  you  marry  Frederic  Raymond?" 

The  blind  eyes  opened  wide,  as  if  they  doubted  the 
sanity  of  the  speaker  ;  then  quietly  replying,  "]STo, 
indeed,  I  wouldn't,"  Alice  turned  a  second  time  upon 
her  pillow  and  slept  again,  while  Marian,  a  good  deal 
piqued  at  the  answer,  tormented  herself  with  won- 
dering what  the  child  could  mean,  and  why  she  dis- 
liked Frederic  so  much.  The  next  morning  it  was 
Alice  who  awoke  Marian  and  said,  "  Was  it  a 
dream,  or  did  you  say  Something  to  me  last  night 
about  marrying  Frederic  ?" 

For  a  moment  Marian  forgot  that  the  sightless  eyes 
turned  so  inquiringly  toward  her  could  not  see,  and 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  to  hide  the 
blushes  she  knew  were  burning  there. 

"  Say,"  persisted  Alice,  "what  was  it?"  and  half 
willingly,  half  reluctantly,  Marian  told  of  the  strange 
request  which  Frederic  had  made,  saying  nothing, 
however,  of  the  letter,  for  if  Colonel  Raymond  had 
done  her  a  wrong,  she  felt  it  a  duty  she  owed  hia 
memory  to  keep  it  to  herself. 

The  darkened  world  in  which  Alice  lived,  had  ma- 
tured her  other  faculties  far  beyond  her  age,  ancl 
though  not  yet  seven  years  old,  she  was  in  many 


KEEPING   THE    PROMISE.  -15 

things  scarcely  less  a  child  than  Marian,  whose  story 
puzzled  her,  for  she  could  hardly  understand  how  ono 
who  had  seemed  so  much  her  companion  could  think 
of  being  a  married  woman.  Marian  soon  convinced 
her,  however,  that  there  was  a  vast  difference  be- 
tween almost  seven  and  almost  sixteen,  and  etill  she 
was  not  reconciled. 

"  Frederic  is  well  enough,"  she  said,  "  and  I  once 
heard  Agnes  Gibson  say  he  was  the  best  match  in  the 
county,  but  somehow  he  don't  seem  to  like  you. 
Ain't  he  stuck  up,  and  don't  he  know;  a  heap  more 
than  you?" 

"Yes,  but  I  can  learn,"  answered  Marian,  sadly, 
thinking  with  regret  of  the  many  hours  she  had  played 
in  the  woods  when  she  might  have  been  practising 
upon  the  piano,  or  reading  the  books  which  Frederic 
liked  best.  "  I  can  in  time  make  a  lady  perhaps — 
and  then  you  know  if  I  don't  have  him,  one  of  us 
must  go  away,  for  he  said  so." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Alice,  catching  her  breath  and 
drawing  nearer  to  Marian,  "  wouldn't  it  be  nice  for 
you  and  me  to  live  here  all  alone  with  Dinah,  and  do 
just  as  we're  a  mind  to.  Tell  him  you.  won't,  and  let 
him  go  back  where  he  came  from." 

"No,"  returned  Marian,  "if  either  goes  away,  it 
will  be  me,  for  I've  no  right  here,  and  Frederic  has." 
"  You   go   away,"   repeated  Alice.     "  What  could 
you  do  without  Dinah  ?" 

"  I  don't  knowr."  returned  Marian  mournfully,  a 
dim  foreboding  as  it  were  of  her  dark  future  rising 
•up  before  her.  "  I  can't  sew — I  don't  know  enough 
to  teach,  and  I  couldn't  do  anything  but  die  !" 

This  settled  the  point  with  Alice..  She  would  ra- 
ther Marian  should  marry  Frederic  than  go  away  and 
die,  and  so  she  said,  "  I'd  have  him,  I  reckon,"  add- 
ing quickly,  "  You'll  carry  the  keys,  then,  won't  you, 
and  give  me  all  the  preserves  and  cake  I  want  £" 

Thus  was  the  affair  amicably  adjusted  between  the 
two,  and  when  at  the  breakfast  table  she  met  with 


4:6  KEEPING   THE   PltOMISE. 

Frederic,  she  was  ready  to  answer  his  question  ;  but 
she  chose  to  let  him  broach  the  subject,  and  this  he 
did  do  that  evening  when  he  found  her  alone  in  his 
father's  room.  He  lu:d  decided  that  it  was  useless  to 
struggle  with  his  fate,  and  he  resolved  to  make  the 
best  of  it.  How  far  Redstone  Hall,  bank  notes,  stock 
and  real  estate  influenced  this  decision  we  cannot  say, 
but  he  was  sincere  in  his  intention  of  treating  Marian 
well,  and  when  lie  found  her  by  accident  in  his  father's 
room,  he  said  to  her  kindly,  "  Can  you  answer  me 
now  ?" 

Marian  was  not  y^t  enough  accustomed  to  the  world 
to  conceal  whatever  she  felt,  and  with  the  light  of  a 
new  happiness  shining  on  her  childish  face,  she  went 
up  to  him,  and  laying  her  hand  confidingly  upon 
his,  she  said,  "  I  will  marry  you,  Frederic,  if  you  wish 
me  to." 

A  strange  enigma  is  human  nature.  When  the 
previous  night  she  had  hesitated  to  answer,  Frederic 
was  conscious  of  a  vague  fear  that  she  might  say  no — 
and  now  that  she  had  said  yes,  he  felt  less  pleasure 
than  pain,  for  the  die  he  knew  was  cast.  A  more  ob- 
serving eye  than  Marian's  would  have  seen  the  dark 
shadow  which  flitted  over  his  face,  and  the  sudden 
paling  of  his  lips,  but  she  did  not;  she  only  saw  how 
he  shook  off  her  band  without  even  so  much  as  touch- 
ing it,  and  all  the  novels  she  had  ever  read  would 
surelv  have  sanctioned  so  modest  a  proceeding  as 
that  I  But  novels,  she  reflected,  were  not  true,  'and 
as  she  was  an  actor  in  real  lite,  siie  mast  accept 
whatever  that  life  might  bring.  Still  she  was  not 
qui;e  satisfied,  and  when  Frederic,  fancying  he  should 
feel  better  it'  the  matter  were  well  over,  said  to  her, 
"  There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  delay — my  father 
would  wish  the  marriage  to  take  place  immediately, 
and  I  will  speak  to  Dinah  at  once,"  she  felt  that  with 
him  it  was  a  mere  form,  and  bursting  into  tears-she 
taid  passionately,  "  You  are  not  obliged  to  inarry  me. 
•  1  certainly  did  not  ask  you  to." 


• 
KEEPING   THE    PBOMISE.  47 

For  a  moment  Frederic  stood  irresolute,  and  then  he 
replied,  "  Don't  be  foolish,  Marian,  but  take  a  com- 
mon sense  view  of  the  matter.  I'  am  not  accustomed 
to  love-making,  and  the  character  would  not  suit  me 
now  when  my  heart  is  so  full  of  sorrow  for  my  father. 
Many  a  one  would  gladly  take  your  place,  but" — here 
he  paused,  uncertain  how  to  proceed  and  still  keep 
truth  upon  his  side — then,  as  a  bright  thought  struck 
him,  he  added,  "  but  I  prefer  you  to  all  the.  girls  in 
Kentucky.  Be  satisfied  with  this,  and  wait  patiently 
for  the  time  when  I  can  show  you  that  I  love  you." 

His  manner  both  frightened  and  fascinated  Marian, 
and  she  answered  through  her  tears,  "1  will  be  satis  • 
tied,  and  wait." 

Frederic  knew  well  that  Marian  was*  too'  much  of 
a  child    to  manage  the  affair,  and  after  his  interview 
with  her,  he  sought  out  Dinah,  to  whom  he  announ- 
ced his  intentions. 

"  There  is  no  need  of  delay,"  he  said,  "  and  twc 
weeks  from  to-day  is  the  time  appointed.  There  will 
be  no  show — no  parade— simply  a  quiet  wedding  in 
the  presence  of  a  few  friends,  who  will  dine  with 
us,  of  course.  The  dinner,  you  must  see  to,  and  1 
will  attend  to  the  rest." 

Amid  ejaculations  of  surprise  and  delight,  old  Di- 
nah heard  what  he  had  to  say — and  then, 'boiling  over 
with  the  news,  hastened  to  the  kitchen,  where  she 
was  soon  surrounded  by  an  astonished  and  listening 
audience,  the  various  members  of  which  were  affect- 
ed differently,  just  according  to  their  different  ideas 
of  what  "marster  Frederic's"  wife  ought  to  be. 
Among  the  negroes  at  Redstone  -Hall  were  two  dis- 
tinct parties,  one  of  wThich  having  belonged  to  Mr. 
Higgius,  the  former  owner  of  the  place,  looked  rather 
contemptuously  upon  the  other  clique,  who  had  been 
purchased  of  Mr.  Smithers,  a  neighboring  planter, 
and  were  not  supposed  to  have  as  high  blood  hi  their 
veins  as  was  claimed  by  their  darker  rivals.  Hence 
between  the  democratic  Smitiierses  and  the  aristocratic 


48  KEEPING   THE   PROMISE. 

Higginses  was  waged  many  a  fierce  battle,  which  was 
Visually  decided  by  old  Dinah,  who,  having  belonged 
to  another  family  still,  "  thanked  "the  Lord  that  she 
was  neither  a  Higginses  nor  a  Smitherses,  but  was 
a  peg  or  so  abovo  such  low-lived  truck  as  them." 

On  this  occasion  the  announcement  of  Master  Fred- 
eric's expected  marriage  was  received  by  the  Smither- 
ses with  loud  shouts  of  joy  and  hurrahs  for  Miss 
Marian.  The  Higginses,  on  the  contrary,  though 
friendly  to  Marian,  declared  she  was  not  high  bred 
enough  to  keep  up  the  glory  of  the  house,  and  Aunt 
Hetty,  who  led  the  clan  and  was  a  kind  of  rival  to 
old  Dyiah,  launched  faith  into  a  wonderful  stream 
of  eloquence. 

"  Miss  Marian  would  do  in  her  place,"  she  said,  "but 
'twas  aburnin'  shame  to  set  such  an  onery  thing  over 
them  as  had  been  oncet  used  to  the  quality.  'Twas 
different  with  the  Smitherses,  whose  old  Miss  was 
bed  rid  with  a  spine  in  her  back,  and  hadn't  but  one 
store- carpet  in  the  house.  But  the  Higginses,  she'd 
let  'em  know,  had  been  'customed  to  sunthin'  better. 
Oh,"  said  she,  "you  or'to  seen  Miss  Beatrice  the  fust 
day  Marster  brought  her  home.  She  looked  jest  like 
a  queen,  with  that  great  long  switchin'  tail  to  her 
dress,  a  wipin'  up  the  walk  so  clean  that  I,  who  was  a 
gal  then,  didn't  have  to  sweep  it  for  mor'n  a  week — 
and  them  ars  she  put  on  when  she  curchied  inter  the 
room  and  walkin'  backards  sot  down  on  the  rim  of  the 
cheer — so" — and  holding  out  her  fhort  linsey-woolsey 
to  its  widest  extent,  the  old  negress  proceeded  to  il- 
lustrate. 

But  alas  for  Aunt  Hetty — her  intention  was  antici- 
pated by  stuttering  Josh,  the  most  mischievous  spirit 
of  all  the  Smithers  clan.  Quick  as  thought  the  active 
boy  removed  the  chair  where  she  expected  to  land, 
pushing  into  its  place  an  overflowing  slop-pail,  and 
into  this  the  discomfited  old  lady  plunged  amid  tho 
execrations  of  her  partisans  and  the  jeers  of  her  op- 
ponents. 


KEEPING   THE    PROMISE.  49 

"You  Josh — you  villain — the  Lord  spar  me  long 
enough  to  break  yer  sassy  neck !"  she  screamed,  as 
with  difficulty  she  extricated  herself  from  her  position 
and  wrung  her  dripping  garments. 

Ci  Sarved  you  right,"  said  Dinah,  shaking  her  fat 
sides  with  delight.  "  Sarved  }^ou  right,  and  the  fust 
one  that  raises  thar  voice  agin  Miss  Marian  '11  catch 
sunthin'  a  heap  wns  than  dirty  Dishwater." 

But  Dinah's  threat  was  unnecessary,  for  with  Het- 
ty's downfall  the  star  of  the  Higginses  set,  leaving 
that  of  the  Smitherses  still  in  the  ascendant  ! 

Meantime  Marian  was  confiding  to  Alice  the  story 
of  her  engagement,  and  wondering  if  Frederic  intend- 
ed taking  a  bridal  tour.     She  hoped  he  did,  for  she  so 
much  wished  to  see  a  little  of  the  world,  particularly 
New  York,  of  which  she   had   heard    such    glowing 
accounts.     But  nothing   could  be  less  in  accordance 
with  Frederic's  feelings  than  a  bridal  tour — and  when 
once  Marian  ventured  to  broach  the  subject,   he  said 
that  under  the  circumstances  it  would  hardly  be  right 
to  go  off  and  enjoy  themselves,  so  they  had   better 
stay  quietly  at  home.     And  this  settled  the  point,  for 
Marian  never  thought  of  questioning  his  decision.    If 
they  made  no  journey,   she  would  not  need  any  addi- 
tions to  her  wardrobe,  and  she  was  thus  saved  from 
the  trouble  which  usually  falls  to  the  lot  of  brides. — 
Still  it  was  not  at  all  in  accordance  with  her  ideas — 
this  marrying  without  a  single  article  of  finery,  and 
once  she  resolved  to  indulge  in  a  new  dress  at   least. 
She  had  ample  means  of  her  own,  for  her  guardian  had 
been  lavish  of  his  money,  always  giving  her  far  more 
than  she  could  use,  and  during  the  last  year  she  had 
been  saving  a  fund  for  the  purpose  of  surprising  Alice 
and  the   blacks  with  handsome  Christmas  presents. — 
The  former  was  to  have  a  little  gold  watch,  which  she 
had  long  desired,  because  she  liked  to  hear  it  tick — 
but  the  watch  and  the  dress  could  not  both  be  bought, 
and  when  she  considered  this,  Marian  generously  gave 
up  tiie  latter  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  the   blind  girl. 

3 


50  KEEPING   THE   PROMISE. 

Among  her  dresses  was  a  neat,  white  muslin 
her  by  Colonel  Raymond  only  the  Summer  previous, 
and  this  she  decided  should  be  the  wedding  robe,  for 
black  was  gloomy,  she  said,  and  would  almost  seem 
ominous  of  evil. 

And  so  the  childish  bride  elect  made  her  simple  ar- 
rangements, unassisted  by  any  one  save  Dinah  and 
the  little  Alice,  the  latter  of  whom  was  really  of  the 
most  service,  for  old  Dinah  spent  the  greater  portion 
of  her  time  in  grumbling  because  "  Murster  Frederic 
didn't  act  more  lover-like  to  his  wife  that  was  to  be." 

Marian,  too,  felt  this  keenly,  but  she  would  not 
admit  it,  and -she  said  to  Dinah,  "You  can't  expect 
him  to  be  like  himself  when  he's  mourning  for  his  fa- 
ther." 

"  Mournin'  for  his  father,"  returned  Dinah, — "  and 
what  if  he  is?  Can't  a  fellow  kiss  a  gal  and  mourn  a 
plenty  too?  Taint  no  way  to  do  to  mope  from  inorn- 
in'  till  night  like  you  was  gwine  to  the  gallus.  Me 
and  Phil  didn't  act  that  way  when  he  was  settin'  to 
me — but  I  'spect  they've  done  got  some  new  f angled 
way  of  courtin'  jest  as  they  hev  for  everything  else — • 
but  I'm  satisfied  with  the  old  fashion,  and  I  wish 
them  fetch-ed  Yankees  would  mind  their  own  busi- 
ness and  let  well  'uough  alone." 

Dinah  felt  considerably  relieved  after  this  long 
speech,  particularly  as  she  had  that  very  morning 
made  it  in  substance  to  Frederic — and  when  that  eve- 
ning she  saw  the  young  couple  seated  upon  the  same 
sofa,  and  tolerably  near  to  each  other,  she  was  sure 
she  had  done  some  good  by  "  ghmen  'em  a  piece  of 
her  mind." 

Among  the  neighbors  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
talk,  and  occasionally  a  few  of  them  called  at  Redstone 
Hall,  but  these  only  came  to  go  away  again,  and 
comment  on  Frederic's  strange  taste  in  marrying  one 
so  young,  and  so  wholly  unlike  himself.  It  could 
not  be,  they  said,  that  he  had  really  cared  about  the 
Will,  else  why  had  he  so  soon  taken  Marian  to  share 


KEEPING   THE   PROMISE.  51 

his  fortune  with  him  ?  But  Frederic  kept  his  own 
counsel,  and  once  when  questioned  on  the  subject  of 
his  marriage  and  asked  if  it  were  not  a  sudden  thing, 
he  ansvveied  haughtily,  "  Of  course  not — it  was  de- 
cided years  ago,  when  Marian  first  came  to  live  with 
us." 

And  so  amid  the  speculations  of  friends,  the  gossip 
of  Dinah,  the  joyous  anticipations  of  Marian,  and  the 
harrowing  doubts  of  Frederic,  the  two  weeks  passed 
away,  bringing  at  last  the  eventful  day  when  Hed 
stone  Hall  was  to  have  once  more  a  mistress. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE      BRIDAL      DAT, 

"!T  was  the  veriest  farce  in  all  the  world,  the  mar 
riage  of  Frederic  Raymond  with  a  child  of  fit- 
teen  ;"  at  least  so  said  Agnes  Gibson  of  twenty -five, 
an  1  so  said  sundry  other  guests  who  at  the  appointed 
hour  assembled  in  the  parlor  of  Redstone  Hall,  to 
witness  the  sacrifice — not  of  Frederic  as  they  vainly 
imagined,  but  of  the  unsuspecting  Marian. 

He  knew  what  he  did,  and  why  he  did  it,  while  she, 
blindfolded  as  it  were,  was  about  to  leap  into  the  un- 
certain future.  No  such  gloomy  thoughts  as  these, 
however,  intruded  themselves  upon  her  mind  as  she 
stood  before  her  mirror  and  with  trembling  fingers 
made  her  simple  bridal  toilet.  When  first  the  idea  of 
marrying  Frederic  \vas  suggested  to  her  nearly  as 
much  pride  as  love  had  mingled«in  her  thoughts,  for 
Marian  was  not  without  her  ambition,  and  the  honor 
of  being  the  mistress  of  Redstone  Hall  had  influenced 
her  decision.  But  during  the  two  weeks  since  her 
engagement,  her  heart  had  gone  out  toward  him  with 
a  deep  absorbing  love,  and  had  he  now  been  the 
poorest  man  in  all  the  world  and  she  a  royal  princess, 
she  would  have  spurned  the  wealth  that  kept  her 
from  him,  or  gladly  have  laid  it  at  his  feet  for  the 
sake  of  staying  with  him  and  knowing  that  he  wished 
it.  And  this  was  the  girl  whom  Frederic  Raymond 
was  about  to  wrong  by  making  her  his  wife  when  he 
knew  he  did  not  love  her.  But  she  should  never 


THE   BRIDAL   DAT.  53 

know  it,  he  said — should  never  suspect  that  nothing 
but  his  hand  and  name  went  with  the  words  he  was  so 
soon  to  utter,  and  he  determined  to  be  true  to  her  and 
faithful  to  his  marriage  vow. 

Some  doubt  he  had  as  to  the  effect  his  father's  let- 
ter might  have  upon  her,  and  once  he  resolved  that 
she  should  never  see  it ;  but  this  was  an  idle  thought, 
not  to  be  harbored  for  a  moment.  He  had  told  her 
when  she  asked  him  for  it  the-  last  time  that  she 
should  have  it  on  her  bridal  day  ;  for  so  his  father 
willed  it,  and  lie  would  keep  his  word.  He  had  writ- 
ten to  Isabel  at  the  very  last,  for  though  he  was  not 
bound  to  her  by  a  promise  he  knew  an. explanation  of 
his  conduct  was  due  to  her,  and  he  forced  himself  to 
write  it.  Not  a  word  did  he  say  against  Marian,  but 
he  gave  her  to  understand  that  but  for  his  father  the 
match  would  never  have  been  made — that  circum- 
stances over  which  he  had  no  control  compelled  him 
to  do  what  he  was  doing.  He  should  never  forgejt 
the  pleasant  hours  spent  in  her  society,  he  said,  and 
he  closed  by  asking  her  to  visit  the  future  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond at  Redstone  Hall.  It  cost  him  a  bitter  struggle 
to  write  thus  indifferently  to  one  he  loved  so  well,  but 
it  was  right,  he  said,  and  when  the  letter  was  finished 
he  felt  that  the  last  tie  which  bound  him  to  Isabel  was 
sundered,  and  there  was  nothing  fur  him  now  but  to 
make  the  best  of  Marian.  So  when  on  their  bridal 
morning  she  came  to  him  and  asked  his  wishes  con- 
cerning her  dress,  he  answered  her  very  kindly,  "  As 
you  are  in  mourning  you  had  better  make  no  change, 
besides  I  think  black  very  becoming  to  your  fair 
complexion." 

This  was  the  first  compliment  he  had  ever  paid  her, 
and  her  heart  thrilled  with  delight,  but  when,  as  she 
was  leaving  the  room  he  called  her  back  and  said, 
still  gently,  kindly,  "  Would  you  as  soon  wear  your 
hair  plain  ?  I  do  not  quite  fancy  ringlets,"  her  eyes 
tilled  with  tears,  for  she  remembered  the  corkscrew 


54  THE   BRIDAL   DAT. 

curls,  and  glancing  in  the  mirror  at  her  wavy  hair, 
she  wished  it  were  possible  to  remedy  the  defect. 

"  I  will  do  the  best  1  can,"  she  said,  and  returning 
to  her  room,  &he  commenced  her  operations,  but  it 
was  a  long,  tedious  process,  the  combing  out  of  those 
curls,  for  her  hair  was  tenacious  of  its  rights,  and  even 
when  she  thought  it  subdued  and  let  go  of  the  end,  it 
rolled  up  about  her  forehead  in  tight  round  rings,  as  if 
spurning  alike  both  water  and  brush. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  what  could  make  me  yank 
out  my  wool  like  that,"  muttered  Dinah,  who  was 
watching  the  straightening  process  with  a-  lowering 
brow,  inasmuch  as  it  reflected  dishonor  upon  her  own 
crisped  locks.  "  If  the  Lord  made  yer  har  to  curl, 
war  it  so,  and  not  mind  every  freak  of  his'n.  Fust 
you  know,  he'll  be  a-wantin'  you  to  war  yer  face  on 
t'other  side  of  yer  head,  but  'taint  no  way  to  do.  You 
must  begin  as  you  can  hold  out.  In  a  few  hours 
you'll  have  as  much  right  here  as  he  has,  and  I'd  show 
it,  too,  by  pitchin'  inter  us  niggers  and  jawin'  to  kill. 
I  shall  know  you  don't  mean  nothin'  and  shan't  keer. 
Come  to  think  on't,  though,  I  reckon  you'd  better  let 
me  and  the  Smitherses  be  and  begin  with  them  Hig- 
ginses.  I'd  give  it  to  old  Hetty  good — she  'sarves  to 
be  took  down  a  button  hole  lower,  if  ever  a  nigger 
did,  for  she  said  a  heap  o'  stuff  about  you." 

Marian  smiled  a  kind  of  quiet  happy  smile  and 
went  on  with  her  task,  which  \vas  finished  at  last,  and 
her  luxuriant  hair  was  bound  at  the  back  of  her  head 
in  a  large  flat  knot.  The  effect  was  not  becoming  and 
she  knew  it,  but  if  Frederic  liked  it  she  was  satisfied, 
even  if  Dinah  did  demur,  telling  her  she  looked  like 
"  a  cat  whose  ears  had  been  boxed."  Frederic  did 
not  like  it,  but  after  the  pains  she  had  taken  he  would 
not  tell  her  .so,  and  when  she  said  to  him,  "I  am 
ready,"  he  offered  her  his  arm  and  went  silently  down 
the  stairs  to  the  parlor,  where  guests  and  clergymen 
were  waiting. 

The  day  was  bright  and  beautiful,  for  the  light  of 


THE   BRIDAL   DAY.  £6 

the  glorious  Indian  Summer  sun  was  resting  on  the 
Kentucky  hills,  and  through  the  op.en  window  the 
murmuring  ripple  of  the  Elkhorn  came,  while  the 
balmy  breath  of  the  south  wind  swept  over  the  white 
face  of  the  bride,  and  lifted  from  her  neck  the  few 
stray  locks  which,  escaping  from  their  confinement, 
curled  •naturally  in  their  accustomed  place.  "But  to 
the  assembled  guests  there  seemed  in  all. a  note  of 
sadness,  a  warning  voice  which  said  the  time  for  this 
bridal  was  not  yet ;  and  years  after,  when  the  beauti- 
ful mistress  of  Ivedstone  Hall  rode  by  in  her  hand- 
some carriage,  Agnes  Gibson  told  to  her  little  sister 
how  on  that  November  day  the  cheeks  of  both  bride 
and  biiclegroom  paled  as  if  with  mortal  fear  when  the 
words  were  spoken  which,  made  them  one. 

Whether  it  were  the  newness  of  her  position,  or  a 
presentiment  of  coming  evil  Marian  could  not  tell,  but 
into  her  heart  there  crept  a  chill  as  she  glanced  tim- 
iuly  at  the  man  -who  stood  so  silently  beside  her,  and 
thought,  "  He  is  my  husband."  It  \vas,  indeed,  a 
sombre  wedding — "more  like  a  funeral,"  the  guests 
declared,  as  immediately  after  dinner  they  took  their 
leave  and  commented  upon  the  affair  as  people  al- 
ways will.  Oh,  how  Frederic  longgd  yet  dreaded  to 
have  them  go.  He  could  not  endure  their  congratu- 
lations, which  to  him  were  meaningless,  and  he  hud 
no  wish  to  be  alone.  He  was  recovering  from  his 
apathy,  and  could  yesterday  have  been  his  again,  he 
believed  he  would  have  broken  his  promise.  But 
yesterday  had  gone  and  to-morrow  had  come — it  was 
to-daj,  now,  with  him,  and  Marian  was  his  wife. 
Turn  which  way  he  would,  the  reality  was  the  same, 
and  with  an  intense  loathing  of  himself  and  a  deep  pity 
for  her,  h*e  feigned  some  trivial  excuse  and  went  away 
to  his  room,  where,  with  the  gathering  darkness  and 
his  own  wretched  thoughts,  he  would  be  alone. 

With  strange  unrest  Marian  wandered  from  room  to 
room,  wondering  if  Frederic  had  so  soon  grown 
weary  of  her  presence,  and  sometimes  half  wishing 


56  THE   BRIDAL   DAT. 

that  she  were  Marian  Lindsey  again,  and  that  the 
new  name  by  which  they  called  her  belonged  to  some 
one  else.  At  last,  when  it  was  really  dark — when  the 
lamps  were  lighted  in  the  parlor  and  Alice  had  wept 
ii  bitter,  passionate  good  night  in  her  arms  and  gone 
f  to  sleep,  she  bethought  her  of  the  letter.  She  could 
read  it  now.  She  had  complied  with  all  the  stipula- 
tions, and  ihere  was  no  longer  a  reason  why  it  should 
be  withheld.  She  went  to  Frederic's  door ;  but  he 
was  not  there,  and  a  servant  passing  in  the  hall  said 
he  had  returned  to  the  parlor  while  she  was  busy  with 
Alice.  So  to  the  parlor  Marian  went,  finding  him 
sitting  unemployed  and  wrapped  in  gloomy  thought. 
He  heard  her  step  upon  the  carpet,  but  standing  in 
the  shadow  as  she  did,  she  could  not  see  the  look  of 
pain  which  flitted  over  his  face  at  her  approach. 

"Frederic,"  she  said,  "  I  may  read  the  letter  now — 
will  you  give  me  the  key?" 

Mechanically  he  did  as  she  desired,  and  then  with  a 
slightly  uneasy  feeling  as  to  the  effect  the  letter  might 
have  upon  her,  he  went  back  to  his  reflections,  while 
she  started  to  leave  the  room.  When  she  reached  the 
door  she  paused  a  moment  and  looked  back.  In  giv- 
ing her  the  key  h8  had  changed  his  position,  and  she 
could  see  the  suffering  expression  of  his  white  face. 
Quickly  returning  to  his  side,  she  said  anxiously,  "Are 
you  sick  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  a  headache.  You  know  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  that,"  he.  replied. 

Marian  hesitated  a  moment — then  parting  the  damp 
brown  hair  from  off  his  forehead  she  kissed  him  timid- 
ly and  left  the  room.  Involuntarily  Frederic  raised 
his  hand  to  wipe  the  spot  away,  but  something  stayed 
the  act  and  whispered  to  him  that  a  wife's  tirst  kiss 
was  a  holy  thing  and  could  never  be  repeated  ! 

Through  the  hall  the  nimble  feet  of  Marian  sped  un- 
til she  stood  within  her  late  guardian's  room,  and 
there  she  stopped,  for  the  atmosphere  seemed  oppres- 
sive and  ladeu  with  terror. 


THE  BKIDAL   DAT.  57 

"'Tis  because  it's  so  dark,"  she  said,  and  going  out 
into  the  hall,  she  took  a  lamp  from  the  table' and  then 
returned. 

But  the  olden  feeling  was  with  her  still — a  feeling 
as  if  she  were  treading  some  fearful  gulf,  and  she  was 
half  tempted  to  turn  back  even  now,  and  ask  Frederic 
to  come  with  her  while  she  read  the  letter. 

"  I  will  not  be  so  foolish,  though,"  she  said,  and 
opening  the  library  door  she  walked  boldly  in  ;  but 
the  same  Marian  who  entered  there  never  came  out 
again  I 

3* 


.      CHAPTER    VI. 

BEADING      THE      LETTER. 

OH,  how  still  it  was  in  that  room,  arid  the  click  of 
the  key  as  it  turned  the  slender  bolt  echoed  through 
the  silent  apartment,  causing  Marian  to  start  as  if  a 
living  presence  had  been  near.  The  drawer  was 
opened,  and  she  held  the^  letter  in  her  hand,  while 
unseen  voices  seemed  whispering  to  her,  "Oh,  Mari- 
an, Marian — leave  the  letter  still  untouched.  I)o  not 
seek  to  know  the  secret  it  contains,  but  go  back  to  the 
man  who  is  your  husband,  and  by  those  gentle  acts 
which  seldom  fail  in  their  effect,  win  his  love.  It  will 
be  far  more  precious  to  you  than  all  the  wealth  of 
which  you  are  the  unsuspecting  heiress." 

But  Marian  did  not  understand — nor  know  why  it 
was  she  trembled  so.  She  only  knew  she  had  the 
letter  in  her  hand — her  letter — the  one  left  by  her 

guardian.      It  bore  no  superscription,  but  it  was  for 
er}  of  course,  and  fixing  herself  in  a  comfortable  po- 
sition, she  broke  the  seal  and  read: 
"My  Dear  Gkild :'\ 

There  was  nothing  in  those  three  words  suggestive 
of  a  mistake — and  Marian  read  on  till,  with  a  quick, 
nervous  start,  she  glanced  forward,  then  backward — 
and  then  read  on  and  on,  until  at  last  not  even  the  fear 
of  death  itself  could  have  stopped  her  from  that  read- 
ing. That  letter  was  never  intended  for  her  eye — she 
knew  that  now,  but  had  the  cold  hand  of  her  guardian 
been  interposed  to  wrest  it  from  her,  she  would  have 


READING    THE    LETTER.  59 

held  it  fast  until  she  learned  the  whole.  Like  coals 
of  living  fire,  the  words  burned  into  her  soul,  scorch- 
ing, blistering  as  they  burned — and  when  the  letter 
was  finished  she  fell  upon  her  face  with  a  cry  so  full 
of  agony  and  horror  that  Frederic  in  the  parlor  heard 
'  the  wail  of  human  anguish,  and  started  to  his  feet, 
wondering  whence  it  came. 

With  the  setting  of  the  sun  the  November  wind  had 
risen,  and  as  the  young  man  listened  it  swept  moan- 
ing past  the  window,  seeming  not  unlike  the  sound  he 
had  first  heard.  "  It  was  the  wind,"  he  said,  and  he 
resumed  his  seat,  while,  in  that  little  room,  not  very 
far  away,  poor  Marian  came  back  to  consciousness, 
and  crouching  on  the  fioor,  prayed  that  she  might  die. 
She  understood  it  now — how  she  had  been  deceived, 
betrayed,  and  cruelly  wronged.  She  knew,  too,  thai 
she  was  the  heiress  of  untold  wealth,  and  for  a  single 
moment  her  heart  beat  with  a  gratified  pride,  but  the 
surprise  was  too  great  to  be  realized  at  once,  and  the 
ieeling  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  reason  why  Frederic 
Hay mond  had  made  her  his  wife.  It  was  not  herself 
he  had  married,  but  her  fortune — her  money — Red- 
stone Hall.  She  was  merely  a  necessary  incumbrance, 
which  he  would  rather  should  have  been  omitted  in 
the  bargain.  The  'thought  was  maddening,"  and, 
stretching  out  her  arms,  she  asked  again  that  she 
might  die. 

"  Oh,  why  didn't  he  come  to  me  ?"  she  cried,  "  and 
tell  me?  I  would  gladly  have  given  him  half  my 
fortune — yes,  all — all — rather  than  be  the  wretched 
thing  I  am,  and  he  would  have  been  free  to  love  and 
marry  this — " 

She  could  not  at  first  speak  the  name  of  her  rival — 
but  she  said  it  at  last,  and  the  sound  of  it  wrung  her 
heart  with  a  new  and  torturing  pain.  She  had  never 
heard  of  Isabel  Huntington  before,  and  as  she  thought 
ho'A'  beautiful  and  grand  she  was,  she  whispered  to 
herself,  "  Why  didn't  he  go  back  to  her,  and  leave  me, 
the  red- headed  fright,  alone  2  Yes,  that  was  what  he 


60  HEADING   THE   LETTER. 

wrote  to  his  father.  Let  me  look  at  it  agam,"  and  the 
tone  of  her  voice  was  bitter  and  the  expression  of  her 
face  hard  arid  stony,  as  taking  up  the  letter  she  read 
for  the  second  time  that  "  she  was  uncouth,  uneducat- 
ed and  ugly,"  and  if  his  father  did  not  give  up  that 
foolish  fancy,  Frederic  would  positively  "hate  the  red 
headed  fright."  Her  guardian  had  not  given  up  the 
foolish  fancy,  consequently  there  was  but  one  infer- 
ence to  be  drawn. 

In  her  excitement  she  did  not  consider  that  Frederic 
had  probably  written  of  her  harsher  things  than  he 
really  meant.  She  only  thought,  "  He  loathes  me — 
he  despises  me — he.  wishes  I  was  dead — and  I  dared 
to  kiss  him  too,"  she  added.  "  How  he  hated  me  for 
that,  but  'twas  the  first,  and  it  shall  be  the  last,  for  I 
ivill  go  away  forever  and  leave  him  Redstone  Hall, 
the  bride  he  married  a  few  hours  a.u;o,"  and  laying  her 
face  upon  the  chair  Marian  thought  long  and  earnestly 
of  the  future.  She  had  come  into  that  room  a  happy, 
simple-hearted,  confiding  child,  but  she  had  lived 
years  since,  and  she  sat  there  now  a  crushed  but  self- 
reliant  woman,  ready  to  go  out  and  contend  with  the 
world  alone.  Gradually  her  thoughts  and  purposes 
took  a  definite  form.  She  was  ignorant  of  the  knotty 
points  of  law,  and  she  did  not  know  but  Frederic  could 
get  her  a  divorce,  but  from  this  publicity  she  shrank. 
She  could  not  be  pointed  at  as  a  discarded  wife.  She 
would  rather  go  away  where  Frederic  would  never 
see  nor  hear  of  her  again,  and  she  fancied  that  by  so 
doing  he  would  after  a  time  at  least  be  free  to  marry 
Isabel.  She  had  not  wept  before,  for  her  tears  seemed 
scorched  with  pain,  but  at  the  thought  of  another  com- 
ing there  to  take  the  place  she  had  hoped  to  till, 
they  rained  in  torrents  over  her  white  face,  and  clasp- 
ing her  little  hands  -convulsively  together,  she  cried — 
"  How  can  I  gi\e  him  up  when  I  love  him  so  much — 
BO  much  ?" 

Gradually  there  stole  over  her  the  noble,  unselfish 
thought,  that  because  she  loved  him  so  much,  give 


READING   THE   LETTER.  61 

would  willingly  sacrifice  herself  and  all  she  had  for  the 
Bake  of  making  him  h;ippy — and  then  she  grew  calm 
again  and  began  to  decide  where  she  would  go.  In- 
stinctively her  mind  turned  toward  New  York  city  as 
the  great  hiding  place  from  the  world.  Mrs.  Burt, 
the  woman  who  had  lived  with  them  in  Yonkers.  and 
who  had  always  been  so  kind  to  her,  was  in  New  York 
she  knew,  for  she  had  written  to  Colonel  Raymond  not 
long  before  his  death,  asking  if  there  was  anything  in 
Kentucky  for  her  son  Ben  to  do.  This  letler  her 
guardian  had  answered  and  then  destroyed  with  many 
others,  which  he  said  were  of  no  consequence,  and  on- 
ly lumbered  up  his  drawer.  Consequently  there  waa 
no  possibility  that  this  letter  would  suggest  Mrs.  Burt 
to  Frederic,  who  had  never  seen  her,  she  having  come 
and  gone  while  he  was  away  at  school,  and  thus  far 
the  project  was  a  safe  one.  But  her  name — she  might 
some  time  be  recognized  by  that,  and  remembering 
that  her  mother's  maiden  name  was  Mary  Grey,  and 
that  Frederic,  even  if  he  had  ever  known  it,  which 
was  doubtful,  had  probably  forgotten  it,  she  resolved 
upon  being  henceforth  MARIAN  GBEY,  and  she  repeat- 
ed it  aloud,  feeling  the  while  that  the  change  was  well 
• — for  she  was  no  longer  the  same  girl  she  used  to  know 
as  Marian  Lindsey.  Oi.ce  she  said  softly  to  herself, 
"  Marian  Raymond,"  but  the  sound  grated  harshly,  for 
she  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to  bear  that  name. 

This  settled,  she  turned  her  thoughts  upon  the  means 
by  which  New  York  was  to  be  reached,  and  she  was 
glad  that  she  had  not  bought  the  dress,  for  now 
she  had  ample  funds  with  which  to  meet  the  expense, 
and  she  would  go  that  very  night,  before  her  resolu- 
tion failed  her.  lledstone  Hall  was  only  two  miles 
from  the  station,  and  as  the  evening  train  passed  at 
half-past  nine,  there  would  be  time  to  reach  it,  and 
write  a  farewell  letter,  too,  to  Frederic,  for  she  must 
tell  him  how,  though  it  broke  her  heart  to  do  it,  she 
willingly  gave  him  everything,  and  hoped  he  would 
be  happy  when  she  was  gone  forever.  Marian  was 


62  READING   THE   LETTER. 

•beautiful  then  in  her  desolation,  and  so  Frederic  Ray- 
mond would  have  said,  could  he  have  seen  her  with 
the  light  of  her  noble  sacrifice  of  self  shining  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  new-born,  womanly  expression  on  her 
face.  The  first  fearful  burst  was  over,  and  calmly  she 
sat  down  to  her  task — but  the  storm  rose  high  again 
as  she  essayed  to  write  that  good-by,  which  -would 
seem  to  him  who  read  it  a  cry  of  despair  wrung  from 
a  fainting  heart. 

"  Frederic — dear  Frederic"  she  began,  "  can  I — 
may  I  say  my  husband  once — just  once — and  I'll  nev- 
er insult  you  with  that  name  again  ? 

"I  am  going  away  forever,  Frederic,  and  when 
you  are  reading  this  I  shall  not  be  at  Redstone  Hall, 
nor  anywhere  around  it.  Do  not  try  to  find  me.  It 
is  better  you  should  not.  Your  father's  letter,  which 
was  intended  for  you,  and  by  mistake  has  come  to  me, 
will  tell  you  why  I  go.  I  forgive  your  father,  Frede- 
ric— fully,  freely  forgive  him — but  you — oh,  Frederic, 
if  I  loved  you  less  I  should  blame  you  for  deceiving 
me  so  cruelly.  If  you  had  told  me  all  I  would  glad- 
ly have  shared  my  fortune  with  you.  I  would  have 
given  you  more  than  half,  and  when  you  brought  that 
beautiful  Isabel  home  I  would  have  loved  her  as  a 
sister. 

"  Why  didn't  you,  Frederic  ?  What  made  you 
treat  me  so?  What  made  you  break  my  heart  when 
you  could  have  helped  it?  It  aches  so  hard  now  as  I 
write,  and  the  hardest  pain  of  all  is  the  loss  of  fairfi 
in  you.  I  thought  you  so  noble,  so  good,  and  I  may 
confess  to  you  here  on  paper,  I  loved  you  so  much — 
how  much  you  will  never  know,  for  I  shall  never 
come  back  to  tell  you. 

"  And  I  kisssed  you,  too.  Forgive  me  for  that, 
Frederic.  I  didn't  know  then  how  you  hated  me. — 
Wash  the  stain  from  your  forehead,  can't  you  ? — and 
don't  lay  it  up  against  me.  If  I  thought  I  could  make 
you  love  me,  I  would  stay.  I  would  endure  torture 
for  years  if  I  knew  the  light  was  shining  beyond,  but 


•  BEADING   THE   LETTER.  63 

it  cannot  be.  The  sight  of  me  would  make  yon  hato 
me  more.  So  I  give  everything  I  have  to  you  and 
Isabel.  You'll  marry  her  at  a  suitable  time,  and  when 
you  see  how  well  she  becomes  your  home,  you  will  be 
glad  I  went  away.  If  yon  must  tell  ker  of  me,  and  I 
suppose  you  must,  speak  kindly  of  me,  won't  you? — 
You  needn't  talk  of  me  often,  but  sometimes,  when 
you  are  all  alone,  and  you  are  sure  she  will  not  know, 
think  of  poor  little  Marian,  who  gave  her  life  away, 
that  one  she  loved  the  best  in  all  the  world  might 
have  wealth  and  happiness. 

"  Farewell,  Frederic,  farewell.  Death  itself  cannot 
be  harder  than  bidding  you  good-by,  and  knowing  it 
is  for  ever." 

And  well  might  Marian  say  this,  for  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  dipped  her  pen  in  her  very  heart's  blood, 
when  she  wrote  that  last  adieu.  She  folded  up  the 
letter  and  directed  it  to  Frederic — then  taking  another 
sheet  she  wrote  to  the  blind  girl : 

"  DEA.REST  ALICE — Precious  little  Alice.  If  my 
heart  was  not  already  broken,  it  would  break  at  leav- 
ing you.  Don't  mourn  for  me  much,  darling.  Tell 
Dinah  and  Hetty,  and  the  other  blacks,  not  to  cry — 
and  if  I've  ever  been  cross  to  them,  they  must  forget 
it  now  that  I  am  gone.  God  bless  you  all.  Good  by 
— good  by." 

The  letters  finished,  she  left  them  upon  the  desk, 
where  they  could  not  help  being  seen  by  the  first  one 
who  should  enter — then  stealing  up  the  stairs  to  the 
closet  at  the  extremity  of  the  hall,  she  put  on  her 
bonnet,  vail  and  shawl,  and  started  for  her  purse, 
which  was  in  the  chamber  where  Alice  slept.  Care- 
ful, very  careful  were  her  footsteps  now,  lest  she 
should  waken  the  child,  who,  having  cried  herself  to 
sleep,  was  resting  quietly.  The  purse  was  obtained, 
as  was  also  a  daguerreotype  of  her  guardian  which 
lay 'in  the  same  drawer — and  then  for  a  moment  she 
stood -gazing  at  the  little  blind  girl,  ana  longing  to 
give  her  one  more  kiss  ;  but  she  dared  not,  and  glan- 


64  BEADING   THE   LETTER. 

cing  hurriedly  around  the  room  which  had  been  hers 
so  long,  she  hastened  down  the  stairs  and  out  upon 
the  piazza.  She  could  see  the  light  from  the  parlor 
window  streaming  out  into  the  darkness,  and  drawing 
near  she  looked.through  blinding  tears  upon  the  soli- 
tary man,  who,  sitting  there  alone,  little  dreamed  of 
the  whispered  blessings  breathed  for  him  but  a  few 
yaids  away.  It  seemed  to  Marian  in  that  moment  of 
agony  that  her  very  life  was  <>oing  out,  and  she  leaned 
against  a  pillar  to  keep  herself  from  falling. 

"Oh,  can  I  leave  him?"  she  thought.  "  Can  I  go 
away  forever,  and  never  see  his  face  again  or  listen 
to  his  voice  ?"  and  looking  up  into  the  sky  she  prayed 
that  if  in  heaven  they  should  meet  again,  he  might 
know  and  love  her  there  for  what  she  Buffered  here. 

On  the  withered  grass  and  leaves  near  by  there  was 
a  rustling  sound  as  if  some  one  was  corning,  and  Mari- 
an drew  back  for  fear  of  being  seen,  but  it  was  only 
Bruno,  the  large  watch  dog.  He  had  just  been  re- 
leased from  his  kennel,  and  he  came  tearing  up  the 
walk,  and  with  a  low  savage  growl  sprang  toward  the 
spot  where  Marian  was  hiding! 

"  Bruno,  good  Bruno,"  she  whispered,  and  in  an  in- 
stant the  fierce  mastiff  crouched  at  her  feet  and  licked 
her  hand  with  a  whining  sound,  as  if  he  suspected 
something  wrong. 

One  more  yearning  glance  at  Frederic — one  more 
tearful  look  at  her  old  home,  and  Marian  walked  ra- 
pidly down  the  avenue,  folio w-ed  by  Bruno,  who  could 
neither  be  coaxed  nor  driven  back.  It  was  all  in  vain 
that  Marian  stamped  her  little  foot,  wound  her  arms 
round  his  shaggy  neck,  bidding  him  return;  he  only 
answered  with  a  faint  whine  quite  as  expressive  of 
obstinacy  as  words  could  have  been.  He  knew  Mari- 
an had  no  business  to  be  abroad  at  that  hour  of  the 
night,  and,  with  the  faithfulness  of  his  race,  was  de- 
termined to  follow.  At  length,  as  she  was  beginning 
to  despair  of  getting  rid  of  him,  she  remembered  how 
pertinaciously  he  would  guard  any  article  which  he 


BEADING   THE   LETTER.  65 

knew  belonged  to  the  family — and  on  the  bridge 
which  crossed  the  Elkhorn,  she  purposely  dropped  her 
glove  and  handkerchief,  the  latter  of  which  bore  her 
name  in  full.  The  ruse  was  successful,  for  after  vain- 
ly attempting  to  make  her  know  that  she  had  lost 
something,  the  dog  turned  back,  and,  with  a  loud, 
mournful  howl,  which  Marian  accepted  as  his  farewell, 
he  laid  himself  down  by  the  handkerchief  and  glove, 
turning  his  head  occasionally  in  the  direction  Marian 
had  gone,  and  uttering  low  plaintive  howls  when  he 
saw  she  did  not  return. 

Meantime  Marian  kept  on  her  way,  striking  out  in- 
to the  fields  so  as  not  to  be  observed — and  at  last,  just 
as  the  cars  sounded  in  the  distance,  she  came  up  to  a 
clump  of  trees  growing  a  little  to  the  left,  and  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  road  from  that  on  which  the  depot 
stood.  By  getting  in  here  no  one  would  see  her  at 
the  stalion,  and  when  the  train  stopped  she  came  out 
from  her  concealment,  and  bounding  lightly  upon  the 
platform  of  the  rear  car,  entered  unobserved.  As  the 
.passengers  were  sitting  with  their  backs  toward  her, 
but  one  or  two  noticed  her  when  she  came  in,  and 
these  scarce  gave  her  a  thought,  as  she  sank  into  the 
seat  nearest  to  the  door,  and  drawing  her  vail  over 
her  face  trembled  violently  lest  she  should  be  recog- 
nized, or  at  least  noted  and  remembered.  But  her 
feais  were  vain,  for  no  one  there  had  ever  seen  or 
heard  ol  her — and  in  a  moment  more  the  train  was 
moving  on,  and  she,  heart-broken  and  alone,  was  tak- 
ing her  bridal  tour  1 


CHAPTER    VH. 

THE      ALARM. 

IN  her  solitary  bed  little  Alice  slumbered  on.  moan- 
ing occasionally  in  her  sleep,  and  at  last  when  the 
clock  struck  nine,  starting  up  and  calling  "  Marian, 
Marian,  where  are  you  ?"  Then,  remembering  that 
Marian  could  not  come  to  her  that  night,  she  puzzled 
her  little  brain  with  the  great  mystery,  and  wept  her- 
self to  sleep  for  the  second  time. 

In    the  kitchen   old    Dinah   was  busy  with  various 
household  matters.      With  Frederic  she  had  heard  in 
the  distance  the  bitter  moan  which  Marian  made  when 
first  she  learned  how  she  had  been  deceived,  and  like 
him  she  had  wondered  what  the  sound  could  be — then 
as  a  baby's  cry  came  from  a  cabin  near   by,   she  had 
said  to  herself,  "  some  of  them  Iliggins  brat^,  I'll  war- 
rant.    They're  allus    a   squallin',"   and,  satisfied  with 
this  conclusion,  she  had  resumed  her  work.      Once  or  • 
twice  after  that  she  was  in  the   house,   feeling  a  good 
deal  disturbed  at  seeing  Frederic  sitting  alone  with- 
out his  bride,  who,  she  rightly  supposed-,  "  was   some- 
wliar.     But  'tain't  no  way,"  she  muttered  ;  "  Phil  and 
me  didn't  do  like  that;"    then  reflecting  that  "  white 
folks  wasn't  like  niggers,"  she  returned  to  the  kitchen 
just  as  Brnno  set  up  his  first  loud  howl.     With  Dinah 
the  howl  of  a  dog  was  a  sure  sign  of  death,  and  drop- 
ping her  tallow  candle  in  her  fright,  she  exclaimed — 
"for  the  Lord's  sake  who's  gwine  to  die  nov  ?  I  hope 
to  goodness  'taint  me,  nor  Phil,  nor  Lid,  nor  Victory 


THE   ALARM.  67 

Engeny,"  and  turning  to  Annt  Hetty,  who  was  troub- 
led with  vertigo,  she  asked  if  "  she'd  felt  any  signs  of 
an  afterplax  fit  lately?" 

•'  The  Lord,"  exclaimed  old  Hetty,  "I  hain't  had  a 
drap  o'  blood  in  me  this  six  month,  and  if  Bruno's 
hovvlin'  for  me,  he  may  as  well  save  his  breath  ;"  but 
in  spite  of  this  self-assurance,  the  old  negress,  when 
no  one  saw  her,  dipped  her  head  in  a  bucket  of  wa- 
ter by  way  of  warding  off  the  danger. 

Thus  the  evening  wore  away  until  at  last  Dinah, 
standing  in  the  doorway,  heard  the  whistle  of  the  train 
as  it  passed  the  Big  Spring  station. 

"  Who  s'posed  'twas  half-past  nine,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  I'll  go  this  minit  and  see  if  Miss  Marian  wants 
me." 

Just  then  another  loud  piercing  howl  from  Bruno, 
who  was  growing  impatient,  fell  upon  her  ear  and  ar- 
rested her  movements. 

"  What  can  ail  the  critter,"  she  said — "  and  he'vs 
down  on  the  bridge,  too,  I  believe." 

The  other  negroes  also  heard  the  cry,  which  was 
succeeded  by  another  and  another,  and  became  at  last 
one  prolonged  yell,  which  echoed  down  the  river  and 
over  the  hills,  starting  Frederic  from  his  deep  reverie 
and  bringing  him  to  the  piazza,  where  the  blacks  had 
assembled  in  a  body. 

"  'Spects  mebbe  Bruno's  done  cotched  somethin'  or 
somebody  down  thar,"  suggested  Philip,  the  most 
courageous  of  the  group . 

'"Suppose  you  go  and  see,"  said  Frederic,  and  light- 
ing his  old  lantern  Philip  sallied  out,  followed  ere 
long  by  all  his  comrades,  who,  by  accusing  each  oth- 
er of  being  "  skeered  to  death,"  managed  to  keep  up 
their  own  courage. 

The  bridge  was  reached,  and  in  a  tremor  of  delight 
Bruno  bounded  upon  Phil,  upsetting  the  old  man  and 
extinguishing  the  light,  so  that  they  were  in  total 
darkness.  The  white  handkerchief,  however,  caught 
Dinah's  eye,  and  in  picking  it  up  she  also  felt  the 


68  THE   ALARM.  t 

glove,  which  was  lying  near  it.  But  this  did  not  ex- 
plain the  mystery — and  after  searching  in  vain  for 
man,  beast  or  hobgoblin,  the  party  returned  to  the 
house,  where  their  master  awaited  them. 

"  Thar  warn't  nothin'  thar  'cept  this  yer  rag  and 
glove,"  said  Dinah,  passing  the  articles  to  him. 

He  took  them,  and  going  to  the  light  saw  the  name 
upon  the  handkerchief,  "Marian  Lindsey."  The  glove 
too,  he  recognised  as  belonging  to  her,  and  with  a 
vague  fear  of  impending  evil,  he  asked  where  they 
found  them. 

"  On  the  bridge,"  answered  Dinah ;  "  somebody 
must  have  dropped  'em.  That  handkercher  looks 
mighty  like  Miss  Marian's  hem-stitched  one." 

"  It  is  hers,"  returned  Frederic — "  do  you  know 
where  she  is?" 

"  You  is  the  one  who  drto  know  that,  I  reckon," 
answered  Dinah,  adding  that  she  "  hadn't  seen  her 
sense  jest  after  dark,  when  she  went  up  stars  with 
Alice." 

Frederic  was  interested  now.  In  his  abstraction  he 
had  not  heeded  the  lapse  of  time,  though  he  wondered 
where  Marian  was,  and  once  feeling  anxious  to  know 
what  she  would  say  to  the  letter,  he  was  tempted  to 
go  in  quest  of  her.  But  he  did  not — and  now,  with  a 
presentiment  that  all  was  not  right,  he  went  to  Alice's 
chamber,  but  found  no  Marian  there.  Neither  was 
she  in  any  of  the  chambers,  nor  in  the  hall,  nor  in  the 
dining  room,  nor  in  his  father's  room,  and  he  stood  at 
last  in  the  library  door.  The  writing-desk  was  open, 
and  on  it  lay  three  letters — one  for  Alice,  one  for  him, 
the  other  undirected.  With  a  beating  heart  he  took 
the  one  intended  for  himself,  and  tearing  it  open,  read 
it  through.  When  Marian  wrote  that  "  she  gave  her 
life  away,"  she  had  no  thought  of  deceiving  him,  for 
her  giving  him  up  was  giving  her  very  life.  But  he 
did  not  so  understand  it,  and  sinking  into  a  chair  he 
gasped,  "  Marian  is  dead  1"  while  his  face  grew  livid 
arid  his  heart  sick  with  the  horrid  fear. 


THE    ALARM.  69 

"  Dead,  Marster  Frederic,"  shrieked  old  Dinali — 
"  who  dars  tell  me  my  chile  is  dead  !"  and  bounding 
forward  like  a  tiger,  ehe  grasped  the  arm  of  th« 
wretched  man,  exclaiming,  u  whar  is  she  the  dead  ? 
and  what  is  she  dead  for?  and  what's  that  she's  writ 
that  makes  yer  face  as  white  as  a  piece  of  paper  ? — 
Read,  and.  let  us  hear." 

"  I  can'r,  I  can't,"  moaned  the  stricken  man.  "  Oh, 
has  it  come  to  this  ?  Marian,  Marian — won't  somebo- 
dy bring  her  back  ?:' 

"  If  marster  '11  tell  me  whar  to  look,  I'll  find  her, 
so  help  me,  Lord,"  said  uncle  Phil,  the  tears  rolling 
down  his  dusky  cheeks. 

"  You  found  her  handkerchief  upon  the  bridge," 
returned  Frederic,  "  and  Bruno  has  b'een  howling 
there — d->n't  you  see?  She's  in  the  river! — She's 
drowned  !  Oh,  Marian — poor  Marian,  I've  killed  her 
— but  God  knows  I  did  not  mean  to  ;"  and  in  the  very 
spot  where  not  long  before  poor  Marian  had  fallen  on 
her  face,  the  desolate  man  now  lay  on  his,  and  suffer- 
ed in  part  what  she  had  suffered  there. 

It  was  a  striking  group  assembled  there.  The 
bowed  man,  convulsed  with  strong  emotion,  and 
clutching  with  one  hand  the  letter  which  had  done  the 
fearful  work.  The  blacks  gathered  round,  some  weep- 
ing bitterly  and  all  petrified  with  terror,  while  into 
their  midst  when  the  storm  was  at  its  hight  the  little 
Alice  groped  her  way — her  soft  hair  falling  over  her 
white  night  dress,  her  blind  eyes  rolling  round  the 
room,  and  her  quick  ear  turned  to  catch  any  sound 
which  might  explain  the  strange  proceedings.  She 
had  been  roused  from  sleep  by  the  confusion,  and 
hearing  the  uproar  in  the  hall  and  library,  had  felt 
her  way  to  the  latter  spot,  where  in  the  doorway  she 
stood  asking  for  Marian. 

"  Bless  you,  honey,  Miss  Marian's  dead — drownd- 
ed,"  said  Dinah,  and  Alice's  shriek  mingled  with  the 
general  din. 

"  Where's  Frederic  ?"  asked  the  little  girl,  feeling 


70  THE   ALARM. 

• 

intuitively  that  he  was  the  one  who  needed  the  most 
sympathy. 

At  the  sound?  of  his  name  Frederic  lifted  up  his 
head,  and  taking  the  child  in  his  arms,  kissed  her 
tenderly,  as  if  lie  would  thus  make  amends  for  hia 
coldness  to  the  lost  Marian. 

"  'Tain't  no  way  to  stay  here  like  rocks,"  said  Uncle 
Phil  at  last.  "  If  Miss  Marian's  in  the  river,  we  'cl 
better  be  a  fishin'  her  out,"  and  the  practical  negro 
proceeded  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements. 

Before  he  left  the  room,  however,  he  would  know 
if  he  were  working  for  a  certainty,  and  turning  to  his 
master,  said,  "  Have  you  jest  cause  for  thinkin'  she's 
done  drownded  herself — 'case  if  you  hain't,  'tain't  no 
use  huntin'  This  dark  night,  and  it's  gwine  to  rain, 
too.  The  clouds  is  gettin'  black  as  pitch." 

Thus  appealed  to,  Frederic  answered,  "  She  says  in 
the  letter  that  she's  going  away  forever,  that  she  shall 
not  come  back  again,  and  she  spoke  of  giving  her  life 
away.  You  found  her  handkerchief  and  glove  upon 
the  bridge,  with  Bruno  watching  near,  and  she  is 
gone.  Do  you  need  more  proof?" 

Uncle  Phil  did  not,  though  "he'd  jest  like  to  know, 
he  said,  "  why  a  gal  should  up  and  dround  herself  on 
the  very  fust  night  arter  she'd  married  the  richest  and 
han'somest  chap  in  the  county — but  thar  was  no  tell- 
in'  what  gals  would  do.  Gener'ly,  though,  you  could 
calkerlate  on  thar  cloin'  jest  con-tra-ry  to  what  you'd 
'spect  they  would,  and  if  Miss  Marian  preferred  the 
river  to  that  twenty-live  pound  feather-bed  that  Dinah 
spent  mor'n  an  hour  in  inakin'  up,  'twas  her  nater, 
and  'twan't  for  him  to  say  agin  it.  All  he'd  got  to  do 
was  to  work  1" 

And  the  old  man  did  work,  assisted  by  the  other 
negroes  and  those  of  the  neighbors  who  lived  near  to 
liedstone  Hall.  Frederic,  too,  joined,  or  rather  led 
the  search.  Bareheaded,  and  utterly  regardless  of 
the  rain  which,  as  Uncle  Phil  had  prophesied,  began 
to  fall  in  torrents,  he  gave  the  necessary  directions, 


THE   ALAKM.  71 

and  when  the  morning  broke,  few  would  have  recog- 
nized the  elegant  bridegroom  of  the  previous  day  in 
the  white-faced,  weary  man,  .who,  with  soiled  gar- 
ments and  dripping  hair,  stood  upon  the  narrow 
bridge,  and  in  the  grey  November  morning  looked 
mournfully  down  tlie  river  as  it  went  rushing  on,  tell- 
ing no  secret,  if  secret,  indeed,  there  were  to  tell,  of  the 
wild  despair  which  must  have  filled  poor  Marian's 
heart  a^d  maddened  her  brain  ere  she  sought  that 
watery  grave. 

Before  coming  out  he  had  hurriedly  read  his  fa- 
ther's letter,  and  he  could  well  understand  how  ita 
contents  broke  the  heart  of  the  wretched  girl,  and 
drove  her  to  the  desperate  act  which  he  believed  she 
had  committed. 

"  Poor  Marian,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  "I  alone 
am  the  cause  of  your  sad  death  ;"  and  most  gladly 
would  he  then  have  become  a  beggar  and  earned  his 
bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  could  she  have  come 
back  again,  full  of  life,  of  health  and  hope,  just  as  she 
was  the  day  before. 

But  this  could  not  be,  for  she  was  dead,  he  said, 
dead  beyond  a  doubt ;  and  all  that  remained  for  him 
to  do  was  to  find  her  body  and  lay  it  beside  his  father. 
So  during  that  day  the  seaich  went  on,  and  crowds 
of  people  were  gathered  on  each  side  of  the  river,  but 
no  trace  of  the  lost  one  could  be  found,  and  when  a 
second  time  the  night  fell  dark  and  heavy  round  Red- 
stone Hall,  it  found  a  mournful  group  assembled  there. 

To  Alice  Frederic  had  read  the  letter  left  for  her, 
and  treasuring  up  each  word  the  child  groped  her  way 
into  the  kitchen,  where,  holding  the  note  before  her 
sightless  eyes  as  if  she  could  really  see,  she  repeated 
it  to  the  assembled  blacks, 

"Lot-'  bless  the  child,"  sobbed  Dinah  from  behind 
her  woolen  apron,  "I  kuowed  she  would  remember 
me." 

"  And  me,"  joined  in  Hetty.  "  Don't  you  mind 
how  1  is  spoke  of,  too  ?  She  was  a  lady,  every  inch 


72  THE   ALARM. 

of  her,  Miss  Marian  -was,  an'  if  I  said  any  badness 
of  her,  I  want  yon  to  forgive  me,  Dinah.  Here's  my 
hand,"  and  these  two  old  ladies  took  each  other's 
hand  in  token  that  they  were  joined  together  now  in 
one  common  sorrow. 

Indeed,  for  once,  the  Higginses  and  Smitherses  for- 
got their  ancient  feud  and  united  in  extolling  the  vir- 
tues of  the  lost  one.  After  reading  the  letter  as  many 
as  three  times — for  when  their  grief,  had  somewhat 
subsided,  the  blacks  would  ask  to  hear  it  again,  so  as 
to  have  fresh  cause  for  tears — Alice  returned  to  the 
parlor,  where  she  knew  Frederic  was  sitting.  Her 
own  heart  was  throbbing  with  angnish,  but  she  felt 
that  his  was  a  sorrow  different  from  her  own,  and 
•feeling  her  way  to  where  he  sat  she  wound  her  little 
arms  around  his  neck,  and  whispered  tenderly :  "  We 
must  love  each  other  more  now  that  Marian  is  gone." 

lie  made  no  answer  except  to  take  her  on  his  lap 
and  lay  her  head  upon  his  bosom  ;  but  Alice  was  sat- 
isfied with  this,  and  after  a  moment  she  said,  "  Fred- 
eric, do  you  know  why  Marian  killed  herself?" 

"  Oh,  Alice,  Alice,"  he  groaned.  "  Don't  say  those 
dreadful  words.  I  cannot  endure  the  thought." 

"But,"  persisted  the  child,  "  she  coulin't  have 
known  what  she  was  doing,  and  God  forgave  her. — - 
Don't  you  think  He  did  ?  She  asked  him  to,  I  am 
sure,  when  she  was  sinking  in  the  deep  water." 

The  child's  mind  had  gone  further  after  the  lost 
one  than  Frederic's  had,  and  her  question  inflict- 
ed a  keener  pang  than  any  he  had  felt  before.  He 
had  ruined  Marian,  body  and  soul,  and  Alice  felt  his 
hot  tears  dropping  on  her  face  as  he  made  her  no  re- 
ply. Her  faith  was  stronger  than  his,  and  putting  up 
her  waxen  hand,  she  wiped  his  tears  away,  saying  to 
him,  "  We  shall  meet  Marian  again,  I  know,  and  then 
if  you  did  anything  naughty  which  made  her  ^go 
away,  you  can  tell  her  you  are  sorry,  and  she'll  for- 
give you,  for  she  luved  you  veiy  much." 

Alice's  words  were  like  arrows  to  the   heart  of  the 


THE   ALARM.  73 

young  man,  and  still  he  felt  in  the  first  hours  of  his 
desolation  that  she  was  his  comforting  angel,  and  he 
could  not  live  without  her.  More  than  once  she 
asked  him  if  he  knew  why  Marian  went  away,  and  at 
last  he  made  her  answer,  "  Yes,  Alice,  I  do  know,  but 
I  cannot  tell  you  now.  You  would  not  understand  it." 

"  I  think  I  should,"  persisted  the  child,  "  and  I 
should  feel  so  much  better  if  I  knew  there  was  a  rea- 
son." 

Thus  importuned,  Frederic  replied,  "I  can  only  tell 
you  that  she  thought  I  did  not  love  her." 

"And  did  you,  Frederic.  Did  you  love  her  as  Ma- 
rian ought  to  be  loved?" 

The  large  brown  blind  eyes  looked  earnestly  into 
his  face,  and  with  that  gaze  upon  him  Frederic  Ray- 
mond could  not  tell  a  lie,  so  he  was  silent,  and  Alice, 
feeling  that  she  was  answered,  continued,  "  But  you 
would  love  her  now  it'  she'd  come  back." 

He  couldn't  say  yes  to  that,  either,  for  he  knew  he 
did  not  love  her  even  then,  though  he  thought  of  her 
as  u  noble,  generous-hearted  creature,  worthy  of  a  far 
differentiate  than  had  befallen  her — and  had  she  come 
back  to  him,  he  would  have  striven  hard  to  make  the 
love  which  alone  could  atone  for  what  she  had  endur- 
ed. But  she  did  not  come — and  day  after  day  went 
by,  during  which  the  search  was  continued  at  inter- 
vals, and  always  with' the  same  result — until  when  a 
week  was  gone  and  there  was  still  no  trace  of  her 
found,  people  began  to  suggest  that  she  was  not  in  the 
river  at  all,  but  had  gone  off  in  another  direction. — 
Frederic,  however,  was  incredulous — she-had  no  mo- 
ney that  he  or  any  one  else  knew  of,  or  at  least  but 
very  little.  She  had  never  been  away  from  home 
alone,  and  if  she  had  done  so  now,  somebody  would 
have  seen  her  ere  this,  and  suspected  who  it  was— for 
the  papers  far  and  near  teemed  with  the  strange  event, 
each  editor  commenting  upon  its  cause  according  to 
his  own  ideas,  and  all  uniting  in  censuring  the  hus- 
band, who  at  last  was  described  as  a  cruel,  unfeeling 

4 


-  THE    ALARM. 

wretch,  capable  of  driving  any  woman  from  his  honse, 
particularly  one  as  beautiful  and  accomplished  as  the 
unfortunate  bride !  It  was  in  vain  that  Frederic 
winced  under  the  annoyance — he  could  not  help  it — 
and  the  story  went  the  rounds,  improving  with  each 
repetition,  until  at  last  an  Oregon  weekly  outdid  all 
the  rest  by  publishing  the  tale  under  the  heading  of 
"Supposed  Horrible  Murder."  So  much  for  newspa- 
per paragraphs. 

Meantime  Frederic,  too,  inserted  in  the  papers  ad- 
vertisements for  the  lost  one,  without  aiiy  expectation, 
however,  that  they  would  bring  her  back.  To  him  she 
was  dead,  even  though  her  body  could  not  be  found. 
There  might  be  deep,  unfathomable  sink-holes  in  the 
river,  he  said,  and  into  one  of  these  she  had  fallen — 
and  so,  with  a  crushing  weight  upon  his  spirits,  and 
an  intense  loathing  of  himself  and  the  wealth  which 
was  his  now  beyond  a  question,  he  gave  her  up  as 
lost  and  waited  for  what  would  come  to  him  next. 

Occasionally  he  found  himself  thinking  of  Isabel, 
and  wondering  what  she  would  say  to  his  letter. — 
When  he  last  saw  her,  she  was  talking  of  visiting  her 
mother's  half-brother,  who  lived  at  Dayton,  Ohio,  and 
he  had  said  to  her  at  parting,  "  If  you  come  as  far  as 
that,  you  must  surely  visit  Redstone  Hall." 

But  he  had  little  faith  in  her  coming — and  now  he 
earnestly  hoped  she  would  not,  for  if  he  wronged  the 
living  he  would  be  faithful  to  the  dead  ;  and  so  day 
after  day  he  sat  there  in  his  desolate  home,  brooding 
over  the  past,  trying  to  forget  the  present,  and  shrink- 
ing from  the  future,  which  looked  so  hopeless  now. 
Thoughts  of  Marian  haunted  him  continually,  and  in 
his  dreams  he  often  heard  again  the  wailing  sound, 
which  he  knew  must  have  been  her  cry  when  she 
learned  how  she  had  been  deceived.  Gradually,  too, 
he  began  to  miss  her  presence — to  listen  for  hergirlis4i 
voice,  her  bounding  step  and  merry  laugh,  which  ho 
Lad  once  thought  rude.  Her  careful  forethought  for 


THE   ALARM.  75 

his  comfort,  too,  he  missed — confessing  in  his  •  secret 
heart  at  least  that  Redstone  Hall  was  nothing  without 
Marian. 

And  now,  with  these  influences  at  work  to  make 
him  what  he  ought  to  be,  we  leave  him.  awhile  in  his 
Borrow,  and  follow  the  fugitive  bride. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

M  A  K  I  A  N. 

ONWARD  and  onward — faster  and  faster  flew  the 
n.ght  Express,  and  the  wishes  of  nearly  all  the  passen- 
gers kept  pace  with  the  speed.  One  there  was,  how- 
ever, a  pale  faced,  blue-eyed  girl,  who  dreaded  the 
time  when  the  cars  would  reach  their  destination,  and 
she  be  in  New  York  !  How  she  had  come  thus  far 
safely  she  scarce  could  tell.  She  only  knew  that  every 
body  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  asked  her  where  she 
wished  to  go  ;  until  now  the  last  dreadful  change  was 
made — the  blue  Hudson  was  crossed — Albany  was  far 
behind,  and  she  was  fast  nearing  New  York.  Night 
and  day  she  had  traveled,  always  with  the  same  dull, 
dreary  sense  of  pain — the  same  idea  that  to  her  the 
world  would  never  be  pleasant,  the  sunshine  bright, 
or  the  flowers  sweet  again.  Nervously  she  shrank 
from  observation — and  once,  when  a  lady  behind  her, 
who  saw  that  she  jvas  weeping,  touched  her  shoulder 
and  said,  "  What  is  the  matter,  little  girl?"  she  start- 
ed with  fear,  but  did  not  answer  until  the  question 
was  repeated — then  ehe  replied,  "  Oh,  I'm  so  tired 
and  sick,  and  the  cars  make  such  a  noise  !" 

"  Have  you  come  far  ?"  the  lady  asked,  and  Marian, 
answered,  "  Yes,  very,  very  far,"  adding,  as  she  re- 
membered with  a  shudder  the  din  and  confusion  of  the 
larger  cities,  "  Is  New  York  a  heap  noisier  than  Alba- 
ny or  Buffalo  ?" 


MARIAN.  77 

"  Why,  yes,"  returned  , the  lady,  smiling  at  the 
strange  question.  "  Have  you  never  been  there  ?" 

"  Once,  when  a  child,"  said  Marian,  and  the  lady 
continued,  "  You  seem  a  mere  child  now.  Have  you 
friends  in  the  city  ?" 

"  Yes,  all  I  have  in  the  world,  and  that  is  only  one," 
sobbed  Marian,  her  tears  falling  fast  at  words  of  sym- 
pathy. 

The  lady  was  greatly.interested  in  the  child,  as  she 
thought  her,  and  had  she  been  going  to  ]STew  York 
would  have  still  befriended  her,  but  she  left  at  New- 
burgh,  and  Marian  was  again  alone.  She  had  heard 
much  of  "New  York,  but  she  had  no  conception  of  it — 
and  when  at  last  she  was  there,  and  followed  a  group 
through  the  depot  up  to  Broadway,  her  head  grew 
dizzy  and  her  brain  whirled  with  the  deafening  roar. 
Cincinnati,  Louisville,  Buffalo  and  Albany  combined 
were  nothing  to  this,  and  in  her  confusion  she  won  d 
have  fallen  upon  the  pavement  had  not  the  crowd 
forced  her  along.  Once,  as  a  richly  dressed  young  la- 
dy brushed  past  her,  she  raised  her  eyes  meekly  and 
asked  where  "Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  lived?" 

The  question  was  too  preposterous  to  be  heeded, 
even  if  it  were  heard,  and  the  lady  moved  on,  leaving 
Marian  as  ignorant  as  ever  of  Mrs.  Burt's  wherea- 
bouts. To  two  or  three  other  ladies  the  same  ques- 
tion was  put,  but  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  was  evidently  not 
generally  known  in  New  York,  for  no  one  paid  the 
slightest  attention — except  indeed  to  hold  tighter  their 
purse-strings,  as  if  there  were  danger  to  be  apprehen- 
ded from  the  slender  little  figure  which  extended  its 
ungloved  hand  so  imploringly.  After  a  time,  a  wo- 
man from  the  country,  who  had  not  yet  been  through 
the  hardening  process,  listened  ^to  the  question — and 
finding  that  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  was  no  way  connected 
with  the  Burts  of  Yates  county,  nor  the  Blodgetts  of 
Monroe,  replied  that  she  was  a  stranger  in  the  city, 
and  knew  no  such  person — but  pretty  likely  Marian 
would  find  it  in  the  Directory — and  as  a  regiment  of 


78  MARIAN. 

soldiers  just  then  attracted  her  attention,  she  tuned 
aside,  while  Marian,  discouraged  and  sick  at  heart, 
kept  on  her  weary  way,  knowing  nothing  where  she 
was  going,  and,  if  possible,  caring  less.  When  she 
came  opposite  to  Trinity  Church,  she  sank  down  upon 
the  step,  and  drawing  her  vail  over  her  face,  half 
wished  that  she  might  die  and  be  buried  there  in  the 
enclosure  where  she  saw  the  November  sunshine 
falling  on  the  graves.  And  then  she  wondered  if  the 
roar  of  the  great  city  didn't  even  penetrate  to  the 
ears  of  the  sleeping  dead,  and,  shudderingly,  she  said, 
"  Oh,  I  would  so  much  rather  be  buried  by  the  river 
at  home  in  dear  old  Kentucky.  It's  all  so  still  and 
quiet  there." 

Gradually,  as  her  weariness  began  to  abate,  she 
grew  interested  in  watching  the  passers-by,  wondering 
what  every  body  was  going  down  that  street  for,  and 
why  they  came  back  so  quick !  Then  she  tried  to 
count  the  omnibuses,  thinking  to  herself,  "  Somebo- 
dy's dead  up  town,  and  this  is  the  procession."  The 
deceased  must  have  been  a  person  of  distinction,  she 
fancied,  for  the  funeral  train  seemed  likely  never  to 
end.  And,  what  was  stranger  than  all,  another  was 
moving  up  while  this  was  coming  down  !  Poor  Ma- 
rian !  she  knew  but  little  of  the  great  Babylon  to 
which  she  had  so  recently  come,  and  she  thought  it 
made  up  of  carts,  hacks,  omnibuses  and  people — all 
hurrying  in  every  direction  as  fast  as  they  could  go. 
It  made  her  feel  dizzy  and  cross-eyed  to  look  at  them, 
and  leaning  back  against  the  iron  railing,  she  fell  into 
a  kind  of  conscious  sleep,  in  which  she  never  forgot 
for  an  instan:  the  roar  which  troubled  her  so  much, 
or  lost  the  gnawing  pain  at  her  heart.  In  this  way 
Bhe  sat  for  a  long  time,  while  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  people  went  by,  some  glancing  sideways  at 
her,  and  thinking  she  did  not  look  like  an  ordinary 
beggar,  while  others  did  not  notice  her  at  all. 

At  last,  as  the  confusion  increased,  she  roused   up, 
Btaring  about  her  with  a  wild,  startled  gaze.      People 


MARIAN.  79 

were  going  home,  and  she  watched  them  as  they 
struggled  fiercely  and  ineffectually  to  stop  some  load- 
ed omnibus,  and  then  rushed  higher  up  to  a  more  fa- 
vorable locality. 

"  The  funeral  was  over,"  she  said.  The  omnibusses 
were  most  all  returning,  and  though  she  had  no  idea 
of  the  lapse  of  time,  she  fancied  that  it  might  be  coin- 
ing night,  and  the  dreadful  thought  stole  over  her — 
"  What  shall  I  do  then  ?  Maybe  I'll  go  in  the  church, 
though,"  she  added.  "  Nobody,  I  am  sure,  will  hurt 
me  there,"  and  she  glanced  confidingly  at  the  massive 
walls  which  were  to  shield  her  from  danger  and  dark- 
ness. 

And  while  she  sat  there  thus,  the  night  shadows 
began  to  fall — the  people  walked  faster  and  faster — the 
omnibus  drivers  swore  louder  and  longer — the  crowd 
became  greater  and  greater — and  over  Marian  there 
stole  a  horrid  dread  of  the  hour  when  the  uproar 
would  cease — when  Wall  street  would  be  empty,  the 
folks  all  gone,  and  she  be  there  alone  with  the  blear- 
eyed  old  woman  who  had  seated  herself  near  by,  and 
seemed  to  be  watching  her. 

"  I  will  ask  once  more,"  she  thought.  "  Maybe 
some  of  these  people  know  where  she  lives."  And, 
throwing  back  her  vail,  she  half  rose  to  her  feet,  when 
a  tall,  disagreeable  looking  fellow  bent  over  her  and 
said — "  What  can  I  do  tor  you,  my  pretty  lass  ?" 

For  an  instant  Marian's  heart  stood  still,  for  there 
was  something  in  the  rowdy's  appearance  exceedingly 
repulsive,  but  when  he  repeated  his  question,  she  an- 
swered timidly,  "  I  want  to  find  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt." 

"  Oh,  ye?,  Mrs  Daniel  Burt.  I  know  the  old  lady 
well — lives  just  round  the  corner.  Come  with  me  and 
I'll  show  you  the  way,"  and  the  great  red,  rough  hand 
was  about  to  touch  the  little  slender  white  one  resting 
on  Marian's  lap,  when  a  blow  from  a  brawny  fist 
sent  the  rascal  reeling  upon  the  pavement,  while  a 
round,  good-humored  face  looked  into  Marian's,  and  a 


SO  MAKIAN. 

kindly  voice  said,  "  Did  the  villain  insult  yon,  little 
girl  ?" 

"  Yes — I  reckon  not — I  don't  know,"  answered  Ma- 
rian, trembling  with  fright,  while  her  companion  con- 
tinued, " 'Tis  the  first  time  he  ever  spoke  civil  to  a 
woman  then.  I  know  the  scamp  well — but  what  are 
you  sittin'  here  alone  for,  when  everybody  else  is  go- 
in'  hum?" 

Marian  felt  intuitively  that  he  could  be  trusted,  and 
she  sobbed  aloud,  "Ihavn't  any  home,  nor  friends, 
nor  anything." 

"  Great  Moses  !"  said  the  young  man,  scanning  her 
closely,  "you  ain't  a  beggar — that's  as  sure  as  my 
name  is  Ben  Burt — and  what  be  you  sittin'  here  for, 
any  way  ?" 

Marian  did  not  heed  his  question,  so  eagerly  did 
she  catch  at  the  name  Ben  Burt. 

"Oh,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  grasping  his  arm,  "are 
you  any  way  related  to  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  who  once 
lived  with  Colonel  Raymond  at  Yonkers  ?" 

"  Wall,  ra  ally  now,"  returned  the  honest-hearted 
Yankee,  "  if  this  don't  beat  all.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if 
I  was  some  connected  to  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  bein'  she 
brung  me  up  from  a  little  shaver,  and  has  licked  me 
mor'ii  a  hundred  times.  She's  my  mother,  and  if  it's 
her  you're  looking;  for  we  may  as  well  betraveltu',  for 
she  lives  all  of  three  miles  from  here." 

"Three  miles!"  repeated  Mari-m,  "that  other  man 
said  just  around  the  corner.  What  made  him  tell 
such-a  lie  ?" 

"  Yen  tell,"  answered  Ben,  with  a  knowing  wink, 
which  however  failed  to  enlighten  Marian,  who  was 
too  glad  with  having  found  a  protector  to  ask  many 
questions,  and  unhesitatingly  taking  Ben's  offered  arm 
she  went  with  him  up  the  street,  until  she  found  tha 
car  he  wished  to  take. 

When  they  were  comfortably  seated  and  she  had 
leisure  to  examine  him  more  closely,  she  found  him  to 
be  a  tall,  athletic,  good-natured  looking  young  man, 


MARIAN.  81 

betraying  but  little  refinement  either  in  personal  np- 
pearance  or  manner,  but  manifesting  in-  all  he  did  a 
kind,  noble  heart,  which  won  her  good  opinion  at 
once.  Greatly  he  wondered  who  she  was  and  whence 
she  came,  but  he  refrained  asking  her  any  questions, 
thinking  he  should  know  the  whole  if  he  waited.  It 
seemed  to  Marian  a  long,  long  ride,  and  she  was  be- 
ginning to  wonder  if  it  would  never  end,  when  Ben 
touched  her  arm  and  signified  that  they  were  to 
alight. 

"  Come  right  down  this  street  a  rod  or  so  and  we're 
there,"  said  he,  and  following  whither  he  led,  Marian 
was  soon  climbing  a  long,  narrow  stairway  to  the  third 
story  of  what  seemed  to  her  a  not  very  pleasant  block 
of  buildings. 

But  if  it  were  dreary  without,  the  sight  of  a  cheerful 
blazing  fire,  which  was  disclosed  to  view  as  Ben  open 
ed  a  narrow  door,  raised  her  spirits  at  once,  and  tak- 
ing in  at  a  glance  the  rag  carpet,  the  stuffed  rocking 
chairs,  the  chintz-covered  lounge,  the  neat-looking 
supper  table  spread  for  two,  and  the  neater  looking 
woman  who  was  making  the  toast,  she  felt  the  pain  at 
her  heart  give  way  a  little,  just  a.  little,  and  bounding 
toward  the  woman,  she  cried,  "You  don't  know  me, 
I  suppose.  I  am  Marian  Lindsey,  Colonel  Raymond's 
ward." 

Mrs.  Burt,  for  it  was  she,  came  near  dropping  her 
plate  of  buttered  toast  in  her  surprise,  and  setting  it 
down  upon  the  hearth,  she  exclaimed,  "The  last  per- 
son upon  earth  I  expected  to  see.  Where  did  you 
come  from,  and  how  happened  you  to  run  atbTTl  of 
Ben  2" 

"  I  ran  afoul  of  her,"  answered  Ben.  "I  found  her 
a  cry  in'  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  Old  Trinity,  with 
that  rascal  of  a  Joe  Black,  makin'  b'lieve  he  was  well 
acquainted  with  you,  and  that  you  lived  jest  round 
the  corner." 

"  Mercy  me,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Burt,  "  but  do  tell  a 
body  what  you're  here  for — not  but  I'm  glad   to  see 
4* 


82  MARIAN. 

you,  but  it  seems  so  queer.  How  is  the  old  Colonel, 
and  that  son  I  never  see — Ferdinand,  ain't  it — no 
Frederic,  that's  what  they  call  him  ?" 

At  the  mention  of  Frederic,  Marian  gave  a,  choking 
sob  and  replied  :  "  Colonel  Raymond  is  dead,  and  Fre- 
deric— oh,  Mrs.  Btirt,  please  don't  ask  me  about  him 
now,  or  I  shall  surely  die." 

"There's  some  bedivilment  of  some  kind,  I'll  war- 
rant," muttered  Ben,  who  was  a  champion  of  all  wo- 
man kind.  "There's  been  the  old  Harry  to  pay,  or 
she  wouldn't  be  rnnnin'  off  here,  the  villain,"  and  in 
fancy  he  dealt  the  unknown  Frederic  a  far  heavier 
blow  than  he  had  given  the  scapegrace  Joe. 

"  Well,  never  mind  now,"  said  Mrs.  Burt,  sooth- 
ingly. "Take  off  your  things  and  have  some*snpper; 
you  must  be  hungry,  I'm  sure.  How  long  is  it  since 
you  ate  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Marian,  a  death- 
like paleness  overspreading  her  face  ;  "not  since  yes- 
terday, I  reckon.  Where  am  I?  Everything  is  so 
confused !"  and  overcome  with  hunger,  exhaustion 
and  her  late  fright,  Marian  fainted  in  her  chair. 

Taking  her  in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  been  an  infant, 
.  Ben  carried  her  to  the  spare  room,  which,  in  accord- 
ance with  her  New  England  habits,  Mrs.  Burt  always 
kept  for  company,  and  there  on  the  softest  of  all  soft 
beds  he  laid  her  down;  then,  while  his  mother  re- 
moved her  bonnet  and  shawl,  he  ran  for  water  and 
camphor,  chating  with  his  own  rough  fingers  her  little 
cJaujmy  hands,  and  bathing  her  forehead  until  Marian 
came  back  to  consciousness. 

"  There,  swaller  some  cracker  and  tea,  and  you'll 
feel  better  directly,"  said  Mrs.  Burt ;  and,  like  a  very 
child,  Marian  obeyed,  feeling  that  there  was  some- 
thing delicious  in  being  thus  cared  for  afterxthe  dread- 
ful days  she  had  passed.  "  You  needn't  talk  to  us  to- 
night. There  will  be  time  enough  to-morrow,"  conti- 
nued Mrs.  Burt,  as  she  saw  her  about  to  speak  ;  and 
fixing  her  comfortably  in  bed,  she  went  back  to  Ben, 


MARIAN.  83 

I 

to  whom  she  told  all  that  she  knew  concerning  Marian 
and  the  family  with  whom  she  had  lived. 

"  There's  something  that  ain't  just  right,  depend 
on't,"  said  Ben,  sitting  down  at  the  table.  "That 
Frederic  has  served  her  some  mean  caper,  and  so 
she's  run  away.  But  she  hit  the  nail  on  the  head 
when  she  came  here." 

By  the  time  supper  was  over,  Marian's  soft,  regular 
breathing  told  that  she  was  asleep,  and  taking  the 
lamp  in  his  hand,  the  curious  Ben  stole  to  see  her. 
Her  face  was  white  as  marble,  and  even  in  her  sleep 
the  tears  dropped  from  her  long  eye-lashes,  affecting 
Ben  so  strangely  that  his  coat-sleeve  was  more  than 
once  called  in  requisition  to  perform  the  office  of  a 
handkerchief. 

"  Poor  little  baby  !  You've  been  misused  the  wust 
kind,"  he  whispered,  as  with  his  great  hand  he  brushed 
her  tears  away,  and  then  went  noiselessly  out,  leaving 
her  to  her  slumbers. 

It  was  a  deep,  dreamless  sleep  which  came  to  Marian 
that  night,  for  her  strength  was  utterly  exhausted,  and 
in  the  atmosphere  of  kindness  surrounding  her,  there 
was  something  soothing  to  her  irritated  nerves.  But 
when  the  morning  broke  and  the  roar  of  the  waking 
city  fell  again  upon  her  ear,  she  started  up,  and  gazing 
about  the  room,  thought,  "  where  am  I,  and  what  is 
it  that  makes  my  heart  ache  so?" 

Full  soon  she  remembered  what  it  was,  and  burying 
her  face  in  the  pillows,  she  wept  again  bitterly,  won- 
dering what  they  were  doing  far  away  at  Redstone 
Hall,  and  if  anybody  but  Alice  was  sorry  she  had 
gone.  A  moment  after  Mrs.  Burt's  kind  voice  was 
heard  asking  how  she  was,  and  bidding  her  be  still 
and  rest.  But  this  it  was  impossible  for  Marian  to  do. 
She  could  not  lie  there  in  that  little  room  and  listen 
to  the  din  which  began  to  produce  upon  her  the  same 
dizzy,  bewildering  effect  it  had  done  the  previous 
day,  when  she  sat  on  the  pavement  and  saw  the  omni- 
buses go  by.  She  must  be  up  and  tell  the  kind 


84  MAIJIAN. 

people  her  story,  and  then,  if  they  said  so,  she  would 
go  away — go  back  to  those  graves  she  had  seen  yes- 
terday, and  lying  down  in  some  hollow,  where  that 
horrid  man  and  blear-eyed  woman  conld  not  find  her 
she  would  die,  and  Frederic  would  surely  never  know 
what  had  become  of  her.  She  knew  she  could  trust 
both  Mrs.  Burt  and  Ben,  and  when  breakfast  was 
over,  she  unhesitatingly  told  them  everything,  inter- 
rupted occasionally  by  Ben's  characteristic  exclama- 
tions of  surprise  and  his  mother's  ejaculations  of 
wonder. 

Mrs.  Burt's  first  impulse  was,  that  if  she  were 
Marian  she  would  claim  her  property,  though  of  course 
she  would  not  live  with  Frederic.  But  Ben  said  No 
— "  he'd  work  his  finger-nails  off  before  she  should  go 
back.  His  mother  wanted  some  one  with  her  when 
he  was  gone,  and  Marian  was  sent  to  them  by  Provi- 
dence. Any  way,"  said  he,  "  she  shall  live  with  us  a 
while,  arid  we'll  see  what  turns  up.  Maybe  this 
Fred'll  begin  to  like  her  now  she's  gone.  It's  nater  to 
do  so,  and  some  day  he'll  walk  inhere  and  claim  her." 

This  picture  was  not  a  displeasing  one  to  Marian, 
who  through  her  tears  smiled  gratefully  upon  Ben, 
mentally  resolving  that  should  she  ever  be  mistress  of 
Redstone  Hall  she  should  remember  him.  And  thus 
it  was  arranged  that  Marian  Grey,  as  she  chose  to  be 
called,  should  remain  where  she  was,  for  a  time  at 
least,  and  if  no  husband  came  for  her,  she  should  stay 
there  always  as  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Burt,  whose 
motherly  heart  already  yearned  toward  the  unfor- 
tunate orphan.  Both  Mrs.  Burt  and  Ben  were  noble 
types  of  diamonds  in  the  rough.  Neither  of  them 
could  boast  of  much  education  or  refinement,  but  in 
all  the  great  city  there  were  few  with  warmer  hearts 
or  kindlier  feelings  than  the  widow  and  her  son. 
Particularly  was  this  true  of  Ben,  who  in  his  treat- 
ment of  Marian  only  acted  out  the  impulse  of  nature  ; 
if  she  had  been  aggrieved,  he  was  the  one  to  defend 
her,  and  if  she  bade  him  keep  her  secret,  it  was  as 


MAKIAN.  85 

safe  with  him  as  if  it  had  never  been  breathed  into 
his  ear.  Nearly  all  of  Ben's  life  had  been  passed  in 
factories,  and  though  now  home  on  a  visit,  he  was 
still  connected  with  one  in  Ware,  Mass.  Yery  care- 
fully he  saved  his  weekly  earnings,  and  once  in  three 
months  carried  or  sent  them  to  his  mother,  who,  hav- 
ing spent  many  years  in  New  York  city,  preferred  it 
to  the  country.  Here  she  lived  very  comfortably  on 
her  own  earnings  and  those  of  Ben,  whose  occasional 
visits  made  the  variety  of  her  rather  monotonous  life.. 
The  other  occupants  of  the  block  were  not  people  with 
whom  she  cared  to  associate,  and  she  passed  many 
lonely  hours.  But  with  Marian  for  company  it  would 
be  different,  and  she  welcomed  her  as  warmly  as  Ben 
himself  had  done. 

'*.  You  shall  be  my  little  girl,"  she  said,  laying  her 
hand  caressingly  on  the  head  of  Marian,  who  began 
to  think  the  world  was  not  as  cheerless  as  she  had 
thought  it  was.  Still  the  old  dreary  pain  was  in  her 
heart — a  desolate,  home-sick  feeling,  which  kept  her 
thoughts  ever  in  one  place  and  on  one  single  object — 
the  place,  Redstone  Hall,  and  the  object,  Frederic 
Raymond.  And  as  the  days  went  by,  the  fteling 
grew  into  an  intense,  longing  desire  to  see  her  old 
home  once  more — to  look  into  Frederic's  face — to  lis- 
ten to  his  voice,  and  know  if  he  were  sorry  that  she 
was  gone.  This  feeling  Mrs.  JBurt  did  not  seek  to  dis- 
courage, for  though  she  was  learning  fast  to  love  the 
friendless  girl,  she  knew  it  would  be  better  for  her  to 
be  reconciled  to  Mr.  Raymond,  and  when  one  day, 
nearly  four  weeks  after  Marian's  arrival,  the  latter  said 
to  her,  "  I  mean  to  write  to  Frederic  and  ask  him  to 
take  me  back,"  she  did  not  oppose  the  plan,  for  she 
saw  how  the  great  grief  was  wearing  the  young  girl's 
life  away,  making  her  haggard  and  pale,  and  writing 
lines  of  care  upon  her  childish  face. 

That  night  there  came  to  Marian  a  paper  from  Ben, 
who,  having  far  outstaid  his  time,  had  returned  the 
week  before  to  Ware.  Listlessly  she  tore  open  the 


86  MAKIAN. 

wrapper,  and  glancing  at  the  first  page,  was  about 
throwing  it  aside,  when  a  marked  paragraph  arrested 
her  attention,  and,  with  burning  cheeks  and  fast-beat- 
ing heart,  she  read  that  "Frederic  Raj'inond  would 
gladly  receive  any  information  of  a  young  girl  who 
had  disappeared  mysteriously  from  Redstone  Hall." 

"  Oh !"  she  exclaimed,  springing  to  her  feet,  "  i  am 
going  home — back  to  Frederic.  He's  sent  for  me — 
see !"  and  she  pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Burt  the  advertise- 
ment. "  Can  I  go  to-night  ?"  she  continued.  "  Is 
there  a  train  ?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad." 

Mrs.  Bnrt,  however,  was  more  moderate  in  her  feel- 
ings. Mr.  Raymond  could  scarcely  do  less  than  ad- 
vertise, she  thought,  and  to  her  this  did  not  mean  that 
he  wished  the  fugitive  to  return  for  any  love  he  bore 
her.  Still,  she  would  not  dash  Marian's  hopes  at  once, 
though  she  would  save  her  from  the  cold  reception 
she  felt  sure  she  would  meet,  should  she  return  to 
Redstone  Hall,  unannounced.  So,  when  the  first  ex- 
citement of  Marian's  joy  had  abated,  she  said :  "  1 
should  write  to  Mr.  Raymond,  just  as  I  first  thought 
of  doing.  Then  he'll  know  where  you  are,  and  he 
will  come  for  you,  if  he  wants  you,  of  course." 

That  "  if  he  wants  you  "  grated  harshly  on  Marian's 
ear ;  but,  after  her  past  experience,  she  did  not  care 
to  thrust  herself  upon  him,  unless  sure  that  he  wished 
it,  and  concluded  to  follow  Airs.  Burt's  advice.  So 
siie  sat  down  and  wrote  to  him  a  second  letter,  telling 
him  where  she  was,  and  how  she  came  there,  and 
asking  him  in  her  child-like  way,  to  let  her  come  back 
again. 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  come  home  so  much,"  she  wrote; 
"  if  you'll  only  let  me,  you  needn't  ever  call  me  your 
wife,  nor  make  believe  I  am — at  least,  not  until  you 
love  me,  and  I  get  to  be  a  lady.  I'll  try  so  hard  to 
learn.  I'll  go  away  to  school,  and  maybe,  after  a  good 
many  years  are  gone,  you  won't  be  ashamed  of  me, 
though  I  shall  never  be  as  beautiful  as  Isabel.  If  you 
don't  want  me  back$  Frederic,  you  must  tell  me  so.  I 


MARIAN.  87 

can't  feel  any  worse  than  I  did  that  day  when  I  sat 
here  in  the  street  and  wished  I  could  die.  I  didn't 
die  then,  maybe  I  shouldn't  now,  and  if  you  do  hate 
me,  I'll  stay  away  and  never  write  again — never  let 
yon  know  whether  I  am  alive,  or  not;  and  after  seven 
years,  Ben  Burt  says,  you  will  be  free  to  marry  Isabel. 
She'll  wait  for  you,  I  know.  She  won't  be  too  old 
then,  will  she?  I  shall  be  almost  twenty-three,  but 
that  is  young,  and  the  years  will  seem  so  long  to  me 
if  you  do  not  let  me  return.  May  I,  Frederic  ?  Write, 
and  tell  me  Yes  ;  but  direct  to  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  as  1 
shall  then  be  more  sure  to  get  it.  I  dare  not  hope 
you'll  come  for  me,  but  if  you  only  would,  and  quick, 
too,  for  my  heart  aches  so,  and  my  head  is  tired  and 
sick  with  the  dreadful  noise.  Do  say  I  may  come 
home.  God  will  bless  you  if  you  do,  I  am  sure  ;  and  if 
you  don't,  I'll  ask  Him  to  bless  you  just  the  same." 

The  letter  closed  with  another  assurance  that  she 
gave  to  him  cheerfully  all  her  fortune — that  she  neither 
blamed  his  father,  nor  himself,  nor  Isabel,  nor  any- 
body. All  she  asked  was  to  come  back! 

Poor  little  Marian!  The  pain  in  her  heart  was  not 
so  intense,  and  the  noise  in  the  street  easier  to  bear 
after  sending  that  letter,  for  hope  softened  them  both, 
and  whispered  to  her,  "he'll  let  me  come,"  and  in  a 
thousand  different  ways  she  pictured  the  meeting  be- 
tween herself  and  Frederic.  Occasionally  the  thought 
intruded  itself  upon  her,  "  what  if  he  bids  me  keep 
away,"  and  then  she  said,  "  111  do  it  if  he  does,  and 
before  seven  years  are  gone,  maybe  I'll  be  dead.  I 
hope  I  shall,  for  I  do  not  want  to  think  of  Isabel's 
living  there  with  him!" 

She  had  great  faith  in  the  seven  years,  for  Sen  had 
said  so,  and  Ben,  who  was  very  susceptible  to  female 
charms,  believed  it,  too,  and  the  thought  of  it  was  like 
a  ray  of  sunshine  in  the  dingy,  noisome  room  where 
all  day  he  worked,  sometimes  reckoning  up  how  many 
months  there  were  in  seven  years — then  how  many 
weeks- — then  how  many  days,  and  finally  calling  him- 


88  MARIAN. 

self  a  fool  for  caring  a  thing  about  it.  "When  the  news- 
paper article  came  under  his  eye,  the  sunshine  left  the 
dirty  room,  and  after  he  had  sent  the  paper  to  Marian 
he  cared  but  little  how  many  months  or  weeks  or  days 
there  were  in  seven  years,  and  he  felt  angry  at  himself 
for  having  sweat  so  hard  in  making  the  computation  ! 

And  so,  while  Marian  in  the  city  waits  and  watches 
for  the  message  which  will,  perhaps,  bid  her  come 
back,  and  Ben,  in  the  noisy  factory,  waits  also  for  a 
message  which  shall  say  she  has  gone,  and  his  mother 
is  again  alone,  the  letter  travels  on,  and  one  pleasant 
afternoon,  when  the  clerk  at  Cincinnati  makes  up  the 
mail  for  Frankfort,  he  puts  that  important  missive  with 
the  rest  and  sends  it  on  its  way. 


CHATER  IX. 

ISABEL      HUNTINGTON. 

ALL  day  and  all  night  it  rained  with  a  steady,  unre- 
lenting pour,  and  when  the  steamboat  which  plies  be- 
tween Cincinnati  and  Frankfort  stopped  at  the  latter 
place,  two  ladies  from  the  lower  deck  looked  drearily 
over  the  city,  one  frowning  impatiently  at  the  mud 
and  the  rain,  while  the  other  wished  in  her  heart  that 
she  was  safely  back  in  her  old  home,  and  had  never 
consented  to  tiiis  foolish  trip.  This  wish,  however,  she 
dared  not  express  to  her  companion,  who,  though  call- 
ing her  mother,  was  in  reality  the  mistress — the  one 
whose  word  was  law,  and  to  whose  wishes  everything 
else  must  bend. 

"This  is  delightful,"  the  younger  lady  exclaimed, 
as  holding  up  her  fashionable  traveling  dress,  and 
glancing  ruefully  at  her  thin  kid  gaiters,  she  prepared 
to  walk  the  plank.  "  This  is  charming.  I  wonder  if 
they  always  have  such  weather  in  Kentucky." 

'•  No,  Miss,  very  seldom,  'cept  on  strordinary  'ca- 
sions,"  said  the  polite  African,  who  was  holding  an 
umbrella  over  her  head,  and  who  felt  bound  to  defend 
his  native  State. 

The  lady  tossed  her  little  bonnet  proudly,  and  turn- 
ing to  her  mother,  continued  :  "  Have  you  any  idea 
how  we  are  to  get  to  Redstone  Hall  ?" 

At  this  question  an  old  gray-haired  negro,  who,  with 
several  other  idlers,  was  standing  near,  came  forward 
aiid  said,  "If  it's  Redstone  Hall  wliar  Miss  wants  to 


90  ISABEL    IIUNTINGTOir. 

go,  I's  here  with  Marster  Frederic's  carriage.  I  come 
to  fotch  a  man  who's  been  out  thar  try  in'  to  buy  a 
house  of  marster  in  Louisville." 

At  this  announcement  the  face  of  both  ladies  bright- 
ened perceptibly,  and  pointing  out  their  baggage  to 
the  negro,  who  was  none  other  than  our  old  friend  Un- 
cle Phil,  they  went  to  a  public  house  to  wait  until  the 
carriage  came  round  for  them.  t 

"  What  do  you  suppose  Frederic  will  think  when  he 
Bees  us?"  the  mother  asked;  and  the  daughter  replied, 
'c  He  won't  think  anything,  of  course.  It  is  perfectly 
proper  that  we  should  visit  our  relations,  particularly 
when  we  are  as  near  to  them  as  Dayton,  and  they  are 
in  affliction,  too.  He  would  have  been  displeased  if 
we  had  returned  without  giving  him  a  call." 

From  these  remarks  the  reader  will  readily  imagine 
that  the  ladies  in  question  were  Mrs.  Hunting-ton  and 
her  daughter  Isabella.  They  had  decided  at  last  to 
visit  Dayton,  and  had  started  for  that  city  a  few  days 
after  the  receipt  of  Frederic's  letter  announcing  his 
father's  death  :  consequently  they  knew  nothing  of  the 
marriage,  and  the  fact  that  Colonel  Raymond  was  dead 
only  increased  Isabel's  desire  to  visit  Redstone  Hall, 
for  she  rightly  guessed  that  Frederic  was  now  so  ab- 
sorbed in  business  that  it  would  be  long  ere  he  came 
to  New  Haven  again  ;  so  she  insisted  upon  coming, 
and  as  she  found  her  Ohio  aunt  not  altogether  agreea- 
ble, she  had  shortened  her  visit  there,  and  now  with 
her  mother  sat  waiting  at  the  Mansion  House  for  the 
appearance  of  Phil  and  the  carriage.  That  Isabel  was 
beautiful  was  conceded  by  every  one,  and  that  she  was 
as  treacherous  as  beautiful  was  conceded  by  those  who 
knew  her  best.  Early  in  life  she  had  been  engaged  to 
Rudolph  Me  Vicar,  a  man  of  strong  passions,  an  iron 
will  and  indomitable  perseverance.  But  when  young 
Raymond  came,  and  she  fancied  she  could  win  him, 
she  unhesitatingly  broke  her  engagement  "with  Ru- 
dolph, who,  stung  to  madness  by  her  cold,  unfeeling 
conduct,  swore  to  be  revenged.  This  threat,  however, 


ISABEL   HUNTINGTON.  91 

was  little  heeded  by  the  proud  beauty.  If  she  secured 
Frederic  Raymond,  she  would  be  above  all  danger, 
and  she  bent  every  energy  to  the  accomplishment  of 
her  plan.  She  knew  that  the  Kentnckians  were  pro- 
verbial for  their  hospitality,  and  feeling  sure  that  no 
one  would  think  it  at  all  improper  for  her  mother  and 
herself  to  visit  their  cousin,  as  she  called  Frederic,  she 
determined,  if  possible,  to  prolong  that  visit  until  asked 
to  stay  with  him  always.  He  had  never  directly  talked 
to  her  of  love,  consequently  she  felt  less  delicacy 
in  going  to  his  house  and  claiming  relationship  with 
him  ;  so  when  Phil  came  around  with  the  carriage,  she 
said  to  him,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  "  How 
is  Cousin  Frederic  since  his  father's  death  ?" 

"Jest  tolable,  thankee,"  returned  the  negro,  at  the 
same  time  saying,  "  Be  you  marster's  kin  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Isabel,  while  the  negro  bow- 
ed low,  for  any  one  related  to  his  master  was  a  person 
of  distinction  to  him. 

Isabel  had  heard  Frederic  speak  of  Marian,  and 
when  they  were  half  way  home,  she  put  her  head  from 
the  window  and  said  to  Phil,  "  Where  is  the  young 
girl  who  used  to  live  with  Colonel  Raymond — Marian 
was  her  name,  I  think  ?" 

"  Bless  you,"  returned  the  negro,  cracking  his  whip 
nervously,  "haint  you  hearn  how  she  done  got  mar- 
ried to  marster  mighty  nigh  three  weeks  ago  ?" 

"  Married  !  Frederic  Raymond  married  !"  screamed 
Isabel  ;  "  it  is  not  true.  How  dare  you  tell  me  such  a 
falsehood?" 

"  Strue  as  preachin',  and  a  heap  truer  than  some 
on't,  for  I  seen  'em  joined  with  these  very  eyes,"  said 
Phil,  and,  glancing  backward  at  the  white  face 'lean- 
ing from  the  window,  he  muttered,  ;i  'spects  mebby  she 
ealkerlated  on  catcliin'  him  herself.  Ki,  wouldn't  she 
and  Dinah  pull  bar  though.  Thar's  a  heap  of  Ole  Sam 
in  them  black  eyes  of  hern,"  and,  chirruping  to  his 
horses,  Philip  drove  rapidly  on,  thinking  he  wouldn't 


92  ISABEL   HTJNTINGTON. 

tell  her  that  the  bride  had  run  away — he  would  let 
Frederic  do  that. 

Meantime,  Isabel,  inside,  was  choking — gasping — 
crying — wringing  her  hands  and  insisting  that  her 
mother  should  ask  the  negro  again  if  what  he  had  told 
them  were  so. 

"  Man — sir" — said  Mrs.  Huntington,  putting  her 
bonnet  out  into  the  rain,  "  is  Mr.  Frederic  Raymond 
really  married  to  that  girl  Marian  ?" 

"  Yes,  as  true  as  I  am  sittin'  here.  Thursday'll  be 
three  weeks  since  the  weddin',"  was  the  reply,  and 
with  another  hysterical  sob,  Isabel  laid  her  head  in  her 
mother's  lap. 

Nothing  could  exceed  her  rage,  mortification  and 
disappointment,  except,  indeed,  her  pride,  and  this 
was  stronger  than  all  her  other  emotions  and  that 
which  finally  roused  her  to  action.  She  would  not 
turn  back  now,  she  said..  She  would  bra-  e  the  villain 
and  show  him  that  she  did  not  care.  She  would  put 
herself  by  the  side  of  his  wife  and  let  him  see  the  con- 
trast. She  had  surely  heard  from  him  that  Marian 
was  plain,  and  in  fancy,  she  saw  how  she  would  over- 
shadow her  rival  and  make  Frederic  feel  keenly  the 
difference  between  them,  and  then  she  thought  of  the 
discarded  Rudolph.  If  everything  else  should  fail,  she 
could  win  him  back — he  had  some  money,  and  she 
would  rather  be  his  wife  than  nobody's! 

By  this  time  they  had  left  the  highway,  for  Redstone 
Hall  was  more  than  a  mile  from  the  turnpike,  and  Isa^ 
bel  found  ample  opportunity  for  venting  her  ill-nature. 
Such  a  road  as  that  she  never  saw  before,  and  she'd 
like  to  know  if  folks  in  Kentucky  lived  out  in  the  lots. 
"No  wonder  they  were  such  heathen  !  you  nigger,"  she 
exclaimed,  as  Phil  drove  through  a  brook;  "are  you 
going  to  tip  ns  over,  or  what  ?" 

"  Wonder  if  she  'spects  a  body  is  gwine  round  the 
brook,"  muttered  Phil,  and  as  the  carriage  wheels  were 
now  safe  from  the  water,  he  stopped  and  said  to  the 
indignant  lady,  "  mebby  Miss  would  rather  walk  the 


ISABEL    HUNTINGTOK.  93 

rest  of  the  way.     Thar's  a  heap  wus   places  in  the 
cornfield,  whar  we'll  be  pretty  likely  to  get  oversot." 

"  Go  on,"  snapped  Isabel,  who  knew  she  could  not 
walk  quite  as  well  as  the  mischievous  driver. 

Accordingly  they  went  on,  and  ere  long  came  in 
sight  of  the  house  which  even  in  that  drenching  rain 
looked  bean tif al  to  Isabel,  and  all  the  more  beautiful 
because  she  felt  that  she  had  lost  it.  On  the  piazza 
little  Alice  stood,  her  fair  hair  blowing  over  her  face, 
and  her  ear  turned  to  catch  the  first  sound  which 
should  tell  her  if  what  she  hoped  were  true".  Old 
Dinah,  who  saw  the  carriage  in  the  distance,  had  said 
there  was  some  one  in  it,  and  instantly  Alice  thought 
of  Marian,  and  going  out  upon  the  piazza,  she  waited 
impatiently  until  Phil  drove  up  to  the  door. 

"  There  are  four  feet,"  she  said,  as  the  strangers 
came  up  the  steps;  "four  feet,  but  nons  are  Ma- 
rian's," and  she  was  turning  sadly  away,  when  she 
accidentally  trod  upon  the  long  skirt  of  Isabel,  who, 
snatching  it  away,  said  angrily,  k'  child,  what  are  you 
doing — stepping  on  my  dress?" 

"1  didn't  mean  to  ;  I'm  blind,"  answered  Alice,  her 
lip  quivering  and  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  .Never  you  mind  that  she  dragon,"  whispered 
Uncle  Phil,  thrusting  into  the  child's  hand  a  paper  of 
candy,  which  had  the  effect  of  consoling  her  some- 
what, both  for  her  disappointment  and  her  late  reproof. 

"Who  is  that  ar?"  asked  Dinah,  appearing  upon 
the  piazza  just  as  Isabel  passed  into  the  hall.  "  Some 
of  marster's  kin !"  she  repeated  after  Uncle  Phil. 
"For  the  Lord's  sake,  what  fetched  'em  here  this  rainy 
day,  when  we's  gwine  to  have  an  ornery  dinner- 
no  briled  hen,  nor  turkey,  nor  nothin'.  Be  they 
quality,  think  ?" 

"'Spects  the  young  one  wants  to  be,  if  she  ain't," 
returned  Phil,  with  a  very  expressive  wink,  which 
had  the  effect  of  enlightening  Dinah  with  regard  to 
his  opinion. 

"  Some  low  flung  truck,  I'll  warrant,"  said  she,  as 


y4  ISABEL   HUNTINGTON. 

she  followed  them  into  the  parlor,  where  Isabel's 
stately  bearing  and  glittering  black  eyes  awed  her 
into  a  low  courtesy,  as  she  said :  "  You're  very  wel- 
come to  Redstone  Hall,  I'm  sure.  Who  shall  I  tell 
marster  wants  to  see  him  ?" 

"  Two  ladies,  simply,"  was  Isabel's  haughty  answer, 
and  old  Dinah  departed,  whispering  to  herself,  "  Two 
ladies  simple  !  She  must  think  I  know  nothiu'  'bout 
grarmar  to  talk  in  that  kind  of  way,  but  she's  mis- 
takened.  I  hain't  lived  in  the  fust  families  for  no- 
thin',"  and  knocking  at  Frederic's  door,  she  told  him 
that  "  two  simple  ladies  was  down  in  the  'parlor  and 
wanted  him." 

"  Who  ?"  he  asked,  in  some  surprise,  and  Dinah 
replied  : 

"  Any  way,  that's  what  she  said — the  tall  one,  with 
great  black  eyes  jest  like  coals  of  fire.  Phil  picked 
'em  up  in  Frankford,  whar  they  got  off  the  boat. 
They's  some  o'  yer  kin  they  say." 

Frederic  did  not  wish  to  hear  any  more,  for  lie  sus- 
pected who  the}7  were.  It  was  about  this  time  they 
had  talked  of  visiting  Dayton,  and  motioning  Dinah 
from  the  room,  he  pressed  his  hands  to  his  forehead, 
and  thought,  "  Must  I  suffer  this,  too  ?  Oh,  why  did 
she  come  to  look  at  me  in  my  misery  ?"  Then,  forc- 
ing an  unnatural  calmness,  he  started  for  the  parlor, 
where,  as  he  had  feared,  he  stood  face  to  face  with 
Isabel  Huutington. 

She  was  very  pale,  and  in  her  black  eyes  there  was 
a  hard,  dangerous  expression,  from  which  he  gladly 
turned  away,  addressing  first  her  mother,  who,  rising 
to  meet  him,  said : 

"  We  have  accepted  your  invitation,  you  see." 

"  Y"es,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  and  he  was  trying  to 
stammer  out  a  welcome,  when  Isabel,  who  all  the  time 
had  been  aching  to  pounce  upon  him,  chimed, 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Raymond  ?  I  am  dying  to  see  my 
new  cousin  "  and  in  the  eyes  of  black  there  was  a  red- 


ISABEL    HUNTINQTON.  95 

dish  gleam,  as  if  they  might  ere  long  emit  sparks  of 
living  fire. 

"  Mrs.  Raymond  !"  repeated  Frederic,  the  name 
dropping  slowly  from  his  lips.  "  Mrs.  Raymond ! 
Oh  !  Isabel,  don't  you  know  ?  Havn't  you  heard  ?'" 

"  Certainly  I  have,"  returned  the  young  lady, 
watching  him  as  a  fierce  cat  watches  his  helpless 
prey.  "  Of  course  I  have  heard  of  your  marriage,  and 
have  come  to  congratulate  you.  Is  your  wife  well  ?" 

Frederic  raised  his  hand  to  stop  the  flippant  speech, 
and  when  it  finished  he  rejoined:  "But  havn't  you 
heard  the  rest — the  saddest  part  of  all?  Marian  is 
dead  ! — drowned — at  least  we  think  she  must  be,  for 
she  went  away  on  our  wedding  night,  and  no  trace  of 
her  can  be  found." 

The  fiery  gleam  was  gone  from  the  black  eyes — the 
color  came  back  to  the  cheeks — the  finger  nails  ceased 
their  painful  pressure  upon  the  tender  flesh — the  sha- 
dow of  a  smile  dimpled  the  corner  of  the  mouth,  and 
Isabel  was  herself  again.  . 

"Dead!  Drowned!"  she  exclaimed.  "  How  did  it 
happen?  What  was  the  reason?  Dreadful,  isn't  it?" 
and  going  over  to  where  Mr.  Raymond  stood,  she 
looked  him  in  the  face,  with  an  expression  she  meant 
should  say,  "  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  but  which  really 
did  say  something  quite  the  contrary. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  why  she  went  away,"  Frederic 
answered,  '•  but  there  was  a  reason  for  it,  and  it  has 
cast  a  shadow  over  my  whole  life." 

"  Marian  was  a  mere  child,  I  had  always  supposed," 
suggested  Isabel,  anxious  to  get  at  the  reason  why  he 
had  so  soon  forgotten  herself. 

"  Did  you  get  my  last  letter — the  one  written  to 
you  ?"  asked  Frederic,  and  upon  Isabel's  replying  that 
she  did  not,  he  briefly  stated  a  few  facts  concerning 
his  marriage,  saying  it  was  his  father's  dying  request, 
and  he  could  not  well  avoid  doing  as  he  had  done, 
even  if  he  disliked  Marian.  "  But  I  didn't  dislike  her," 
he  continued,  and  the  hot  blood  rushed  into  his  face. 


96  ISABEL   HUNTINGTON. 

"  She  was  a  gentle,  generous  hearted  girl,  and  had  she 
lived,  I  would  have  made  her  happy." 

If  by  this  speech  Frederic  Raymond  thought  to  de- 
ceive Isabel  Huntington,  he  was  mistaken,  for,  looking 
into  his  eyes  she  read  a  portion  of  the  truth  and  knew 
there  was  something  back  of  all — a  something  be- 
tween himself  and  his  father  which  had  driven  him, 
to  the  marriage.  What  it  was  she  did  not  care  then 
to  know.  She  was  satisfied  that  the  bride  was  gone — 
and  when  Frederic  narrated  more  minutely  the  par- 
ticulars of  her  going,  the  artful  girl  said  to  herself, 
'  She  is  dead  beyond  a  doubt,  and  when  I  leave  Red- 
stone Hall,  I  shall  know  it,  and  mother,  too  !" 

It  was  strange  how  rapidly  Isabel  changed  from  a 
hard,  defiant  woman,  to  a  soft,'  sparkling,  beautiful 
creature,  and  when,  in  her  plaid  silk  dress  of  crimson 
and  brown,  with  her  magnificent  hair  bound  in  heavy 
braids  about  her  head,  she  came  down  to  dinner,  Aunt 
Dinah  involuntarily  dropped  another  courtesy,  and 
•whispered  under  her  teeth,  "The  Lord,  if  she  ain't 
quality  after  all."  Old  Hetty,  too,  who  from  a  side 
door  looked  curiously  in  at  their  guests,  received  a 
like  impression,  pronouncing  her  more  like  Miss  Bea- 
trice than  any  body  she  had  ever  seen.  To  Alice, 
Isabel  was  all  gentleness,  for  she  readily  saw  that  the 
child  was  a  pet;  so  she  called  her  darling  and  dear- 
est, smoothing  her  fair  hair  and  kissing  her  once  when 
Frederic  was  looking  on.  All  this,  however,  did  not 
deceive  the  little  blind  girl,  or  erase  from  her  mind 
the  angry  words  which  had  been  spoken  to  her,  and 
that  evening,  when  she  went  to  Frederic  to  bid  him 
good  night,  she  climbed  into  his  lap  and  said  :  "  Is  that 
Miss  Isabel  going  to  stay  here  always?" 

"  Why,  no,"  he  answered.  "  Did  you  think  she 
was?"  * 

"I  did  not  know,"  returned  Alice,  "but  I  hoped 
not,  for  I  don't  like  her  at  all.  She's  very  grand  and 
beautiful,  Dinah  says,  but  I  think  she  must  look  like 
a  anake,  and  I  want  her  to  go  away,  don't  you  ?" 


ISABEL    HTKTINGTO.N.  97 

Frederic  would  not  say  yes  to  this  question,  and  he 
remained  silent.  Had  he  been  consulted,  he  would 
rather  that  she  had  never  come  to  Redstone  Hall,  but 
now  that  she  was  there,  he  did  not  wish  her  away.  It 
would  be  inhospitable',  he  said,  and  when  next  morn- 
ing she  came  down  to  breakfast,  bright,  fresh  and  ele- 
gant in  her  tasteful  wrapper,  he  felt  a  pang,  as  he 
thought,  "had  I  done  fight,  she  might  have  been  the 
mistress  of  Redstone  Hall,"  but  it  could  not  be  now,  he 
said,  even  if  Marian  were  dead,  and  all  that  day  he 
struggled  manfully  between  his  duty  and  his  inclina- 
tion, while  Isabel  dealt  out  her  highest  card,  ingrafting 
herself  into  the  good  graces  of  the  Smitherses  by 
speaking  to  them  pleasant,  familiar  words,  exalting 
herself  in  the  estimation  of  theHigginses  by  her  lofty, 
graceful  bearing,  and  winning  Dinah's  friendship  by 
praising  Victoria  Eugenia,  and  asking  if  that  fine 
looking  man  who  drove  the  carriage  was  her  husband. 
Then,  in  the  evening,  when  the  lamps  wore  lighted  in 
the  parlor,  she  opened  the  piano  and  filled  the  house 
with  the  rich  melody  of  h  r  cultivated  voice,  singing  a 
sad,  plaintive  strain,  which  reminded  Alice  of  poor, 
lost  Marian,  and  carried  Frederic  back  to  other  days, 
when,  with  a  feeling  of  pride,  he  had  watched  her 
snowy  fingers  as  they  gracefully  swept  the  keys.  He 
could  not  look  at  them  now — he  dared  not  look  at 
her,  in  her  ripe  glowing  beauty,  and  he  left  the  room, 
going  out  upon  the  piazza,  where  he  wiped  great 
drops  of  sweat  from  his  face,  and  almost  cursed  the 
fate  which  had  made  it  a  sin  for  him  to  love  the  dark- 
haired  Isabel.  She  knew  that  he  was  gone,  and  rightly 
divining  the  cause,  she  dashed  off  into  a  stirring 
dancing  tune,  which  brought  the  negroes  to  the  door, 
where  they  stood  admiring  her  playing  and  praising 
her  queenly  form. 

"That's  somethin' like  it,"  whispered  Hetty,  beating 
time  to  the  lively  strain.  "  That  sounds  like  Miss  Bea- 
trice did  when  she  done  played  the  pianner.  I  'clare 
for't,  I  eeuamost  wish  Marster  Frederic  had  done 


98  ISABEL    HUNTING-TOW. 

chose  her.  'Case  you  know  t'other  one  done  drowned 
herself  the  fust  night,"  she  added  quickly,  as  she  met 
Dinah's  rebuking;  glance. 

Dinah  admired  Isabel,  but  she  could  not  forget  Ma- 
rian ;  though  like  her  sex,  whether  black  or  brown, 
she  speculated  upon  the  future,  when  "  Marster  Fre- 
deric would  be  done  mournin',"  and  she  wondered  if 
"  old  miss,"  meaning  Mrs.  Huntington,  would  think  it 
necessary  to  stay  there,  too.  Thus  several  days  went 
by,  and  so  pleasant  was  it  to  Frederic  to  have  some 
one  in  the  house  who  could  divert  him  from  his 
gloomy  thoughts,  that  he  began  to  dread  the  time 
when  he  would  be  alone  again.  But  could  he  have 
looked  into  the  heart  of  the  fair  lady,  he  would  have 
seen  no  immediate  cause  of  alarm.  Isabel  did  not 
intend  to  leave  her  present  quarters  immediately,  and 
to  this  end  her  plans  were  laid.  From  what  she  had 
heard  she  believed  Marian  Lindsey  was  dead,  and  if 
so,  she  would  not  again  trust  Frederic  away  from 
her  influence.  Redstone  Hall  needed  ahead — a  house- 
keeper— and  as  her  mother  was  an  old  lady,  and  also 
a  relative  of  Frederic,  she  was  just  the  one  to  fill 
that  post.  Their  house  in  New  Haven  was  only  rented 
until  March,  and  by  writing  to  some  friends  they 
could  easily  dispose  of  their  furniture  until  such  time 
as  they  might  want  it.  Alice  needed  a  governess,  for 
she  heard  Frederic  say  so  ;  and  though  the  little  pest 
(this  was  what  she  called  her,  to  herself)  did  not  seem 
to  like  her,  she  could  teach  her  as  well  as  any  one.  It 
would  be  just  as  proper  for  her  to  be  Alice's  gover- 
ness as  for  any  one  else,  and  a  little  more  so,  for  her 
mother  would  be  with  her. 

And  this  arrangement '"she  brought  about  with  the 
most  consummate  skill,  first  asking  Frederic  if  he 
knew  of  any  situation  in  Kentucky  which  she  could 
procure  as  a  teacher.  That  was  one  object  of  her  visit, 
ahe  said.  She  must  do  something  for  a  living,  and  as 
she  would  rather  teach  either  in  a  school,  or  in  a  pri- 
vate family,  she  would  be  greatly  obliged  to  him  if  he 


ISABEL   HUNTINGTON.  £9 

would  assist  her  a  ifttle.  Hardly  knowing  what  he 
was  doing,  Frederic  said  something  about  Alice's 
having  needed  a  governess  for  a  long  time;  and 
quickly  catching  at  it,  Isabel  rejoined,  "Oh  !  but  you 
know  I  couldn't  possibly  remain  here,  unless  mother 
staid  with  me.  Now,  if  you'll  keep  her  as  a  kind 
of  overseer-in-general  of  the  house,  I'll  gladly  under- 
take the  charge  of  dear  little  Alice's  education.  She 
does  not  fancy  me,  I  think,  but  I'm  sure  I  can  win  her 
love.  I  can  that  of  almost  any  one — children  I  mean, 
of  course  ;"  and  the  beautiful,  fascinating  eyes  looked 
out  of  the  window  quite  indifferently,  as  if  their  owner 
were  utterly  oblivious  of  the  fierce  struggle  in  Fred- 
eric's bosom. 

He  wished  her  to  stay  with  him — oh,  so  much  !  But 
was  it  right?  and  would  he  not  get  to  loving  her? 
No,  he  would  not,  he  said.  He  would  only  think  of 
her  as  his  cousin — his  sister,  whose  presence  would 
cheer  his  solitary  home.  So  he  bade  her  stay,  and  she 
bade  her  mother  stay,  urging  so  many  reasons  why  she 
should,  and  must,  that  the  latter  consented  at  last,  and 
a  letter  was  dispatched  to  New  Elaven,  with  directions 
for  having  their  furniture  packed  away,  and  their  house 
given  up  to  its  owner.  This  arrangement  at  first 
caused  some  gossip  among  the  neighbors,  who  began 
to  predict  what  the  end  would  be,  and,  also,  to  assert 
more  loudly  than  ever  their  belief  that  Marian  was  not 
dead.  Still,  there  was  no  reason  why  Isabel  should 
not  be  Alice's  governess,  particularly  as  her  mother 
was  with  her ;  and  when  Agnes  Gibson  pronounced 
her  beautiful,  accomplished,  and  just  the  thing,  the 
rest  followed  in  the  train,  and  the  health  of  the  "  nor- 
thern beauty  "  was  drunk  by  more  than  one  last  young 
man. 

In  the  kitchen  at  Redstone  Hall  there  was  also  a 
discussion,  in  which  the  Higginses  rather  had  the  pref- 
erence, inasmuch  as  the  lady  in  question  was  after 
their  manner  of  thinking.  Old  Dinah  wisely  kept  si 
lent,  saying  to  herself,  "  a  new  broom  sweeps  clean, 


100  ISABEL   HUNTINGTON. 

and  I'll  wait  to  see  what  'tis  when  it  gets  a  little  wore. 
One  thing  is  eartin,  though,  if  she  goes  to  put  on  are, 
and  sasses  us  colored  folks,  I'll  gin  her  a  piece  of  my 
mind.  I'll  ask  her  whar  she  come  from,  and  how  many 
niggers  she  owned  afore  she  come  from  thar." 

It  was  several  days  before  Alice  was  told  of  the  ar- 
rangement, and  then  she  rebelled  at  once.  Bursting 
into  tears,  she  hid  her  face  in  Dinah's  lap,  and  sobbed, 
"  I  can't  learn  of  her.  I  don't  like  her.  What  shall 
I  do  ?" 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  I  had  laming','5  answered  Di- 
nah, "  and  I'd  hear  you  say  that  foolishness  'bout  the 
world's  turnin'  round  and  makin'  vis  stan'  on  our  heads 
half  the  time,  but  I  hain't,  and  if  I's  you  I'd  make  the 
best  on't.  I'll  keep  my  eye  on  her,  and  if  she  makes 
you  do  the  fust  thing  you  don't  want  to,  I'll  gin  her  a 
piece  of  my  mind.  I  ain't  afraid  on  her.  Why,  Gib- 
Bon's  niggers  say  how  they  hearn  Miss  Agnes  say  she 
used  to  make  her  own  bed  whar  she  came  from,  and 
wash  dishes,  too!  Think  o'  that!" 

Thus  comforted,  Alice  dried  her  tears,  and  hunting 
up  the  books  from  which  she  had  once  recited  to  Ma- 
rian, she  declared  herself  ready  for  her  lessons  at  any 
time. 

"  Let  it  be  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Isabel,  who  knew 
that,  Frederic  was  going  to  Lexington,  and  that  she 
could  not  see  him  even  if  she  were  not  occupied  with 
Alice. 

So,  the  next  morning,  after  Frederic  was  gone,  Alice 
went  to  the  school-room,  and  drawing  her  little  chair 
to  Isabel's  side,  laid  her  books  upon  the  lady's  lap,  and 
waited  for  her  to  begin. 

"  You  must  read  to  me,"  she  said,  "until  I  know 
what  'tis,  and  then  I'll  recite  it  to  you." 

But  Isabel  was  never  intended  for  a  teacher,  and  she 
found  it  very  tedious  reading  the  same  thing  over  and 
over,  particularly  as  Alice  seemed  inattentive  and  not 
at  all  inclined  to  remember.  At  last  she  said,  impa. 


ISABEL    HUNTINGDON.  101 

tiently,  "  For  the  pity's  sake  how  many  more  times 
must  I  read  it.  Can't  you  learn  anything?" 

;'  Dont — don't  speak  so,"  sobbed  Alice.  "  I'm  think- 
ing of  Marian,  and  how  she  used  to  be  with  me.  It's 
just  six  weeks  to-day  since  she  went  away.  Oh,  I 
•wish  she'd  come  back.  Do  you  believe  she's  dead  ?" 

Isabel  was  interested  in  anything  concerning  Marian, 
and  closing  the  book,  she  began  to  question  the  child, 
asking  her  among  other  things,  if  Marian  did  not  leave 
a  letter  for  Mr.  Kayrnond,  and  if  she  knew  what  was 
in  it." 

"  No  one  knows,"  returned  the  child;  "he  never 
told — but  here's  mine,"  and  drawing  from  her  bosom 
the  soiled  note,  she  passed  it  to  Isabel,  who  scrutinized 
it  closely,  particularly  the  handwriting. 

"  Of  course  she's  dead,  or  she  would  have  been  heard 
from  ere  this,"  said  she,  passing  the  note  back  to  Alice, 
who,  not  feeling  particularly  comforted,  made  but  lit- 
tle progress  in  her  studies  that  morning,  and  both 
teacher  and  pujil  were  glad  when  the  lessons  of  the 
day  were  over. 

Before  starting  for  Lexington,  Frederic  had  sent 
Josh  on  some  errand  to  Frankfort,  and  just  after  din- 
ner the  negro  returned.  Isabel  was  still  alone  upon 
the  piazza  when  he  came  up,  and  as  she  was  expect- 
ing news  from  New  Haven,  she  asked  if  he  stopped  at 
the  post  office. 

"  Ve-e-us  'm,"  began  the  stuttering  negro,  "an'  I 
d-d-d  one  got  a  h-h-eap  on  'em,  too,"  and  Josh  gave 
her  six  letters — one  for  herself  and  five  for  Frederic. 

Hastily  breaking  the  seal  of  her  own  letter,  she  read 
that  their  matters  at  home  were  satisfactorily  arranged 
— a  tenant  had  already  been  found  for  their  house,  and 
their  furniture  would  be  safely  stowed  away.  Hear- 
ing her  mother  in  the  hall,  she  handed  the  letter  to  her 
and  then  went  to  the  library  to  dispose  of  Frederic's. 
As  she  was  laying  them  down  she  glanced  at  the  su- 
perscriptions, carelessly,  indifferently,  until  she  came 
to  the  last,  the  one  bearing  the  New  York  postmark ; 


102  ISABEL    HUNTINGTON. 

then,  with  a  nervous  start  she  caught  it  up  again  and 
examined  it  more  closely,  while  a  sickening,  horrid 
fear  crept  through  her  flesh — her  heart  gave  one  fear- 
ful throb  and  then  lay  like  some  heavy,  pulseless 
weight  within  her  bosom.  Could  it  be  that  she  had 
seen  that  handwriting  before  ?  Had  the  dead  wife  re- 
turned to  life,  and  was  she  coming  back  to  Redstone 
Hall  ?  The  thought  was  overwhelming,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment Isabel  Huntington  was  tempted  to  break  that 
seal  and  read.  But  she  dared  not,  for  her  suspicion 
might  be  false  ;  she  would  see  Alice's  note  again,  and 
seeking  out  the  child  she  asked  permission  to  take  the 
letter  which  Marian  had  written.  Alice  complied 
with  her  request,  and  darling  away  to  the  library  Isa- 
bel compared  the  t\vo.  They  were  the  same.  There 
could  be  no  mistake,  and  in  the  intensity  of  her  excite- 
ment, she  felt  her  black  hair  loosening  at  its  roots. 

"  It  is  from  her,  but  he  shall  never  see  it,  never !" 
she  exclaimed  aloud,  and  her  voice  was  so  unnatural 
that  she  started  at  the  sound,  and  turning  saw  Alice 
standing  in  the  door  with  an  inquiring  look  upon  her 
face,  as  if  asking  the  meaning  of  what  she  had  heard. 

Isabel  quailed  beneath  the  glance  of  that  sightless 
child,  and  then  sat  perfectly  still,  while  Alice  said, 
"  Miss  Huntington,  are  you  here  ?  Was  it  you  who 
spoke  ?" 

Isabel  made  no  answer,  but  trembling  in  every  limb, 
shrank  farther  and  farther  back  in  her  chair  as  the  lit- 
tle, groping,  outstretched  arms  came  nearer  and  nearer 
to  her.  Presently,  when  she  saw  no  escape,  she  forced 
a  loud  laugh,  and  said,  "  Fie,  Alice.  I  tried  to  frighten 
you  by  feigning  a  strange  voice.  You  want  your  let- 
ter, don't  you  ?  Here  it  is.  I  only  wished  to  see  if  in 
reading  it  a  second  time  I  could  get  any  clue  to  the 
mystery,"  and  she  gave  the  bit  of  paper  back  to  Alice, 
who,  somewhat  puzzled  to  understand  what  it'  all 
meant,  left  the  room,  and  Isabel  was  again  alone. 
Three  times  she  caught  up  the  letter  with  the  intention 
of  breaking  its  seal,  and  as  often  threw  it  down,  for, 


ISABEL   HUNTINGTON'.  103 

unprincipled  as  she  was,  she  shrank  from  that  act,  and 
still,  if  she  did  not  know  the  truth,  she  should  go  mad, 
she  said,  and  pressing  her  hands  to  her  forehead,  she 
thought  what, the  result  to  herself  would  be  were  Ma- 
rian really  alive. 

"  But  she  isn't,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  won't  have  it 
BO.  She's  ctead — she's  buried  in  the  river."  But  who 
was  there  in  New  York  that  wrote  so  much  like  her  ? 
She  wished  she  knew,  and  she  might  know,  too,  by 
opening  the  letter.  If  it  was  from  a  stranger,  she  could 
destroy  it,  and  lie,  thinking  it  had  been  lost,  would 
write  again.  She  should  die  if  she  didn't  know,  and 
maybe  she  should  die  if  she  did. 

At  all  events,  reality  was  more  endurable  than  sus- 
pense, and  glancing  furtively  around  to  make  sure 
*hat  no  blind  eyes  were  near,  she  snatched  the  letter 
/Tom  the  table  and  broke  the  seal  !  Even  then  she 
dared  not  read  it,  until  she  reflected  that  she- could  not 
give  it  to  Frederic  in  this  condition — she  might  as  well 
see  what  it  contained  ;  and  wiping  the  cold  moisture 
from  her  face  she  opened  it  and  read,  while  her  flesh 
seemed  turning  to  stone,  and  she  could  feel  the  horror 
creeping  through  her  veins,  freezing  her  blood  and 
petrifying  her  very  brain.  Marian  Lindsey  lived/ 
IShe  was  coming  back  again — back  to  her  husband, 
and  back  to  the  home  which  was  hers.  There  was 
enough  in  the  letter  for  her  to  guess  the  truth,  and  she 
knew  why  another  had  been  preferred  to  herself.  For 
a  moment  even  her  lip  curled  with  scorn  at  what  she 
felt  was  an  unmanly  act,  but  this  feeling  was  soon  lost 
in  the  terrible  thought  that  Marian  nrght  return. 

"Can  it  be?  Must  it  be?"  she  whispered,  as  her 
hard,  black  eyes  fastened  themselves  again  upon  the 
page,  blotfed  with  Marian's  tears.  "Seven  years — • 
seven  ye  irs,"  she  continued,  "  I've  heard  of  that  be- 
fore," and  into  the  wild  tumult  of  her  thoughts  there 
stole  a  ray  of  hope.  If -she  withheld  the  letter  from 
Frederic,  and  she  must  withhold  it  now,  he  would 
never  know  what  she  knew.  Possibly,  too,  Marian 


104  ISABEL    HUNTINUTON. 

iniglit  die,  and  though  she  would  have  repelled  the 
accusation,  Isabel  Huntington  was  guilty  of  murder  in 
her  heart,  as  she  sat  there  alone  and  planned  what  she 
would  do.  She  was  almost  on  the  borders  of  insanity, 
for  the  disappointment  to  her  now  would  be  greater 
and  more  humiliating  than  before.  She  had  no  home 
to  go  to — her  arrangements  for  remaining  in  Kentucky 
were  all  made,  and  Redstone  Hall  seemed  so  fair  that 
she  would  willingly  wait  twice  seven  years,  if,  at  the  ex- 
piration of  that  time,  she  were  sure  of  being  its  mis- 
tress. It  was  worth  t.ying  for,  and  though  she  had 
but  little  hope  of  success,  the  beautiful  demon  bent 
her  queenly  head  and  tried  to  devise  some  means  of 
effectually  silencing  Marian,  so  that  if  there  really 
weie  anything  in  the  seven  years  the  benefit  would 
accrue  to  her. 

"  She's  a  litle  silly  fool,"  she  said,  "  and  this  Mrs. 
Daniel  Burt  she  talked  about  is  just  as  silly  as  herself. 
They'll  both  believe  what  is  told  to  them.  I  may  never 
marry  Frederic,  it  is  true,  but  I'll  be  revenged  on  Ma- 
rian. What  business  had  she  to  cross  my  path,  the 
little  red-headed  jade  !" 

Isabel  was  growing  excited,  and  as  she  dared  do 
anything  when  angry,  she  resolved  to  send  the  letter 
back. 

"I  can  imitate  his  handwriting,"  she  thought;  "I 
can  do  anything  as  I  feel  now,"  and  going  to  her  room, 
she  found  the  letter  he  had  written  to  her  mother. 

This  she  studied  and  imitated  for  half  an  hour,  and 
at  the  end  of  that  time  wrote  on  the  blank  page  of 
Marian's  letter,  "  Isabel  Huntington  is  now  the  mis- 
tress of  Heel  stone  Hall." 

"That  will  keep  her  still,  I  reckon,"  she  said,  and 
taking  a  fresh  envelope,  she  directed  it  to  "  Mr,-.  Dan- 
iel Burt,"  as  Marian  had  bidden  Frederic  do.  "  'Twaa 
a  fortunate  circumstance,  her  telling  him  that,  for 
'  Marian  Lindsey'  would  have  been  observed  af  once," 
ehe  thought ;  aud  then,  lest  her  resolution  should  fail 
her,  she  found  Josh  and  bade  him  take  the  letter  to 


ISABEL   nr/NTINGTOW.  105 

the  post-office  at  the  Forks  of  Elkhorn  not  very  far 
away. 

Nothing  could  suit  Josh  better  than  to  ride,  and 
stuttering  out  something  which  nobody  could  under- 
stand, he  mounted  his  rather  sorry-looking  horse  and 
was  soon  galloping  out  of  sight.  In  the  kitchen  Mrs. 
Huntington  heard  of  Josh's  destination,  and  when  next 
ehe  met  her  daughter,  she  asked  to  whom  she  had  been 
writing. 

"  To  some  one,  of  course,"  answered  Isabel,  at  the 
same  time  intimating  that  she  hoped  she  could  have  a 
correspondent  without  her  mother  troubling  herself. 

The  rudeness  of  this  speech  was  forgorten  by  Mrs. 
Huntingtoii  in  her  alarm  at  Isabel's  pale  face,  and  she 
asked  anxiously  what  was  the  matter? 

"  Nothing  but  a  wretched  headache — teaching  don't 
agree  with  me,"  was  Isabel's  reply,  and  turning  away, 
she  ran  up  the  stairs  to  her  room,  where,  throwing  her- 
self upon  the  bed,  she  tried  to  fancy  it  all  a  dream. 

But  it  was  not  a  dream,  and  Marian's  anguish  Avas 
scarcely  greater  than  her  own  at  that  moment,  when 
she  began  to  realize  that  Frederic  and  Redstone  Hall 
were  lost  to  her  forever.  There  might  be  something 
in  the  seven  years,  but  it  was  a  long,  dreary  time  to 
wait,  with  the  ever-haunting  fear  that  Marian  might 
return,  and  she  half  wished  she  had  not  opened  the 
letter.  But  her  regrets  were  unavailing  now,  and  re- 
solving to  guard  her  secret  .carefully  and  deny  what 
she  had  done,  if  ever  accused  of  it,  she  began  to  con- 
sider how  she  should  hereafter  demean  herself  toward 
Frederic.  It  would  be  terrible  to  have  him  making 
love  to  her,  she  thought,  for  she  would  be  compelled 
to  tell  him  no,  and  if  another  should  become  her  rivpJ, 
the  could  not  stand  quietly  by  and  witness  the  unlaw- 
ful deed. 

"  Oh,  if  I  or  Marian  had  never  been  born,  this  hour 
would  not  have  come  to  me,"  she  cried,  burying  her 
face  in  the  pillows  to  shut  out  the  fast  increasing  dark- 
ness which  was  so  hateful  to  her. 

5* 


106  ISABEL   HTJNTINGTON. 

Already  was  she  reaping  the  frnit  of  tl.e  transgres- 
sion, and  when  an  hour  later  she  heard  the  voice  of 
Frederic  in  the  hall,  she  stopped  her  ears,  and,  bury- 
ing her  face  still  closer  in  the  pillows,  wished  again 
that  either  Marian  or  herself  had  never  seen  the  light 
of  day. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FREDERIC      AND      ALIOE. 

ALL  the  day  long  Frederic  had  thought  of  Marian 
—thought  of  the  little  blue-eyed  girl,  who  just  six 
weeks  before  went  away  from  him  to  die.  To  die. 
Many,  many  times  he  said  that  to  himself,  and  as  often 
as  he  said  it,  he  thought,  "perhaps  she  is  not  dead," 
until  the  belief  grew  strong  in  him  that  somewhere  he 
should  find  her,  that  very  day  it  might  be.  He  wished 
he  could,  and  take  her  back  to  Redstone  Hall,  where 
she  would  be  a  barrier  between  himself  and  the  beau- 
tiful temptation  which  it  was  so  hard  for  him  to  resist. 
Manfully  had  he  struggled  against  it,  going  always 
from  its  presence  when  the  eyes  of  lustrous  black 
looked  softly  into  his  own,  an:1  when  he  heard,  as  he 
often  did,  the  full  rich-toned  voice  singing  merry 
eongs,  he  stopped  his  ears  lest  the  sweet  music  should 
touch  a  chord  which  he  said  was  hushed  forever. 

"  It  might  have  been,"  he  thought  sometimes  to 
himself,  but  the  time  was  past,  and  even  if  Marian 
were  dead,  he  must  not  take  another  to  share  the 
wealth  so  generously  given  up.  And  Marian  was' dead, 
he  had  always  believed  until  to-day,  when  she  seemed 
to  be  so  near,  that  on  his  return  at  night  to  Redstone 
Hall  he  had  a  half  presentiment  that  he  might  find  her 
there,  or  at  least  some  tidings  of  her.. 

All  about  the  house  was  dark,  but  on  the  piazza  a 
little  figure  was  standing,  and  as  its  dim  outline  waa 
revealed  to  him,  he  said,  involuntarily  :  "  That  may  be 
Marian,  god  I  am  glad,  or  at  least  I  will  be  glad,"  and 


103  FBEDEKIC    A^D    ALICE. 

lie  was  hurrying  on,  when  alight  from  the  hall  streamed 
nut  upon  the  figure,  and  he  saw  that  it  was  Alice  wait- 
ing for  him.  Still  the  impression  was  so  strong  that 
after  kissing  her,  he  asked  if  no  one  had  been  at  the 
Hall  that  day. 

"  No  one,"  she  answered,  and  with  a  vague  feeling 
of  disappointment,  he  led  her  into  the  house. 

Alice's  heart  was  full  that  night,  for  accidentally  she 
had  heard  old  Hetty  and  Lyd  discussing  the  probable 
result  of  Isabel's  sojourn  among  them,  and  the  very 
idea  shocked  her,  as  if  they  had  trampled  on  Marian's 
grave. 

"  I'll  tell  Frederic,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  and  ask 
him  is  he  going  to  marry  her,"  and  when  after  his  sup- 
per he  went  into  the  library  to  read  the  letters  which 
Mrs.  Huntington  told  him  were  there,  she  followed 
him  thither. 

It  was  not.  Frederic's  nature  to  pet  or  notice  chil- 
dren much,  but  in  his  sorrow' he  had  learned  to  love 
the  little  helpless  girl  dearly,  and  when  he  saw  her 
standing  beside  him  with  a  wistfuHook  upon  her  face, 
he  smoothed  her  soft  bro\vn  hair  and  said  :  "  What 
does  my  blind  bird  want?" 

"  Take  me  in  your  lap,"  said  Alice,  "  so  I  can  feel 
your  heart  beat  and  know  if  you  tell  me  true." 

He  complied  with  her  request,  and  laying  her  head 
against  his  bosom,  she  began,.  "  be  we  much  related  '<" 

"  Second  cousins,  that's  all." 

"  But  you  love  me,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  very  much." 

"  And  I  love  you  a  heap,"  returned  the  little  girl. 
?'  I  didn't  use  to,  though — till  Marian  went  away. 
Frederic,  Marian  isn't  dead  1"  and,  lifting  up  her  head, 
Alice  looked  at  him  with  a  truthful,  earnest  look, 
which  seemed  to  say  that  she  believed  what  she  as- 
serted. 

Frederic  gasped  a  short,  quick  breath,  and  Alice 
continued,  "  wouldn't  it  be  very  wicked  for  you  to  love 
anybody  else.  I  don't  mean  me — because  I'm  a  little 


FREDERIC    AND   ALICE.  109 

blind  girl — but  to  love  somebody  and  many  them  with 
Marian  alive  ?" 

t;  Certainly  it  would  be  wicked,"  he  replied ;  and 
Alice  continued,  "  Aunt  Hetty  said  you  were  going  to 
marry  Isabel,  and  it  almost  broke  my  heart.  I  never 
thought  before  that  Marian  wasn't  dead,  but  I  knew 
it  then.  I  felt  her  right  there  with  us,  and  I've  felt 
her  ever  since.  Dinah,  too,  said  it  seemed  to  her  just 
like  Marian  was  alive,  and  that  she  hoped  you  wouldn't 
make — perhaps  I  ought  not  to  tell  you,  but  you  don't 
care  for  Dinah — she  hoped  you  wouldn't  make  a  fool 
of  yourself.  Frederic,  do  you  love  Isabel  Huntington  ?" 
"  Yes,"  dropped  involuntarily  from  the  young  man's 
lips,  for  there  was  something  about  that  old  little  child 
which  wrung  the  truth  from  him. 

"  Did  you  love  her  before  you  married  Marian  ?" 
"  Yes,"  he  said  again,  for  he  could  not  help  himself. 
There  was  silence  a  moment,  and  then  Alice,   who 
had  been  thinking  of  what  he  told  her  once  before, 
said,  interrogatively,  "  Marian  found  it  out,  and  that 
was  why  she  thought  you  didn't  love  her   and   went 
away  ?" 

"  That  was  one  reason,  but  not  the  principal  one." 
"  Do  you  think  Isabel  as  good  as  Marian  ?" 
"  No,  not  as  good — not  as  good,"  and  Frederic  was 
glad  that  he  could  pay  this  tribute  to  the  lost  one. 
After  a  moment  Alice  spoke  again  : 
"  Frederic,  do  you  believe  Marian  is  dead  ?" 
"  1  have  always  thought  so,"  he  answered,  and  Alice 
replied  :  "  But  you  don't  know  for  certain ;  and  I  want 
you  to  promise  that  until  you  do  you  won't  make  love 
to  Isabel,  nor  marry  her,  nor  anybody  else,  will  you, 
Frederic?"  and  putting  both  her  little  hands  upon  his 
forehead,  she  pushed  back  his  hair  and  waited  for  an 
answer. 

Many  times  the  young  man  had  made  that  resolu- 
tion, but  the  idea  of  thus  promising  to  another  was 
unpleasant,  and  he  hesitated  for  a  time  ;  then  he  said : 


110  FKEDEKIC    AND   ALICE. 

"  Suppose  we  never  can  know  for  certain — would 
yon  have  me  live  all  my  life  alone  ?" 

"No,"  said  Alice,  "and  you  needn't,  either;  but  I'd 
wait  ever  so  long,  ten  years,  anyway,  and  before  that 
'time  she'll  come,  I'm  sure.  Dinah  says  maybe  she 
will,  and  that  perhaps  we  shan't  know  her,  she'll  be  so 
changed — so  handsome,"  and  as  if  the  power  of  pro- 
phecy were  on  her,  Alice  pictured  a  beautiful  woman 
who  might  come  to  them  sometime  as  their  lost  Ma- 
rian, and  Frederic,  listening  to  her,  felt  more  willing 
to  promise  than  he  had  been  before. 

A  glow  of  hope  was  kindled  within  his  own  bosom, 
and  when  she  finished  he  said  to  her: 

"I  will  wait,  Alice — wait  ten  years  for  Marian." 

Blessed  Alice  !  When  the  mother,  whose  grave 
was  grass-grown  now  and  sunken,  first  knew  her  only 
child  was  blind,  she  murmured  against  the  dealings  of 
Providence,  and  in  the  bitterness  of  her  heart  asked  : 

"  Why  was  my  baby  born  ?  and  what  good  can  it 
ever  do  ?" 

She  who  had  questioned  thus  was  dead,  while  the 
good  the  little  girl  was  to  do  was  becoming,  each  day, 
more  and  more  apparent.  Helpless  and  blind  though 
she  was,  she  would  keep  the  strong  man  from  falling, 
and  when  his  heart  grew  faint  with  hope  deferred,  her 
gentle,  earnest  words  would  cheer  him  on  to  wait  a  lit- 
tle longer.  Marian  was  not  dead  to  her,  and  so  sure 
of  it  did  she  seem  that  when  the  interview  was  ended, 
and  Frederic  was  left  alone,  he  bowed  his  head  rever- 
ently and  said : 

"  If  Marian  be,  indeed,  alive,  will  the  good  Father 
send  me  some  tidings  of  her,  and  so  keep  me  from 
Bin  ?" 

Oh  !  could  the  writing  desk  before  him  have  told 
how  only  that  afternoon  there  had  lain  upon  its  vel- 
vet cover  a  message  from  the  lost  one — a  sweet,  child- 
like petition  for  him  to  take  her  back,  even  though  he 
could  not  love  her — he  would  have  gone  for  her  then, 
and,  bringing  her  to  the  home  which  was  not  his,  but 


FREDERIC   AND   ALICE.  Ill 

hers,  he  would  have  placed  her  between  himself  and 
the  temptation,  yielding  to  her  all  honor  and  respect 
until  his  heart  should  say  it  loved  her.  But  the  time 
was  not  yet,  and  he  must  suffer  longer — must  pass 
through  deeper  waters ;  while  Marian,  too,  must  be 
molded  and  changed  into  a  bride  who,  far  better  than 
the  queenly  Isabel,  could  do  the  honors  of  Bedstone 
Hall. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE     LETTER     RECEIVED. 

IT  was  baking-day  at  Mrs.  Burt's,  and  the  good  lady 
bustled  in  and  out — her  cap  strings  pinned  over  her 
head,  her  sleeves  tucked  up  above  her  shoulders,  and 
her  face,  hands  and  apron  covered  with  flour.  Occa- 
sionally as  she  rolled  out  the  short  pie  crust,  or  sliced 
the  juicy  apple,  she  glanced  at  the  rain-drops  patter- 
ing against  the  window,  and  said  encouragingly,  u  I 
don't  care  for  the  rain,  for  I've  get  a  big  umbrella  and 
the  best  kind  of  overshoes ;"  and  as  often  as  she  re- 
lated the  cheering  words,  they  brought  a  smile  to  the 
thin,  white  face  of  the  young  girl  who  sat  in  the  largo, 
stuffed  easy-chair,  and  did  not  offer  to  share  the  labors 
of  her  aunt,  as  she  called  her. 

Marian  was  sick.  Strong  excitement  had  worn  her 
strength  away,  and  since  she  had  sent  the  letter  to 
Frederic,  her  restless  anxiety  for  the  answer  had  made 
her  so  weak  that  she  kept  her  bed  nearly  all  the  time, 
counting  the  days  which  must  elapse  ere  she  could 
possibly  hope  to  hear,  and  then,  when  the  full  time 
was  out,  bidding  Mrs.  Bart  wait  one  more  day  before 
she  went  to  the  office,  so  as  to  be  sure  and  get  it.  She 
had  made  due  allowance  for  delays,  and  now  she  M  aa 
certain  that  it  had  come.  She  would  sit  up  that  dry, 
she  said,  for  she  felt  almost  well;  and  if  Frederic  tc  Id 
her  to -come  home,  she  should  start  to-morrow  and  get 
there  Saturday  night,  and  she  fancied  how  people 
would  stare  at  her,  and  be  glad  to  see  her,  too,  on  Sun- 
day, when  she  first  went  into  church,  for  she  "  shoi  Id 


THE  LETTER   RECEIVED.  113 

go,  any  way."  Alice,  too,  would  be  delighted,  and 
kiss  her  so  many  times;  and  then  she  wondered  if 
Frederic  wouldn't  kiss  her,  too  —  she  thought  he 
might  just  once,  she'd  been  so  long  away,  and  she  said 
to  herself  that-"  she  would  draw  back  a  little,  and  let 
him  know  she  wasn't  so  very  anxious." 

Poor  Marian,  how  little  was  she  prepared  for  the  cruel 
blow  awaiting  her !  The  pies  were  made  at  last,  aa 
was  the  ginger-bread  and  crispy  snaps ;  the  apple  dump- 
lings, Marian's  favorite  dessert,  were  steaming  on  the 
stove ;  the  litter  was  cleared  away,  the  carpet  swept, 
the  oil-cloth  washed,  the  chairs  set  back ;  and  then 
exchanging  her  work  dress  for  a  more  respectable  de- 
laine, Mrs.  Burt  put  over  the  kettle  to  boil,  "for  after 
her  wet  walk,  she  should  want  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said, 
and,  leaving  Marian  to  watch  the  pie  baking  in  the 
oven,  she  started  on  her  errand. 

"  I  mean  to  have  the  table  ready  when  she  gets 
back,"  said  Marian — "  for  if  I  don't  make  her  think 
I'm  well,  she  won't  let  me  start  so  soon;"  and,  ex- 
erting all  strength,  she  set  the  table  for  dinner  in  the 
neatest  possible  manner,  even  venturing  upon  the  ex- 
travagance of  bringing  out  the  best  white  dishes, 
which  Mrs.  Bart  only  used  on  great  occasions.  "  When 
I  get  some,  I'll  send  her  a  new  set  with  gilt  bands,"  the 
little  girl  said,  as  she  arranged  the  cups,  and  then 
stepped  back  to  witness  the  effect.  "  Oh  !  I  wish  she'd 
come,"  she  continued,  glancing  at  the  clock  ;  but  it 
was  not  time  yet,  and,  resuming  her  rocking-chair,  she 
tried  to  wait  patiently. 

But  it  seemed  very  long  and  very  tiresome,  sitting 
there  alone,  listening  to  the  rain  and  the  ticking  of  the 
clock.  It  is  strange  how  the  most  trivial  circumstance 
will  sometimes  stamp  itselt  indelibly  upon  the  mem- 
ory. The  steam  from  the  dumplings,  which  Marian 
thought  she  should  enjoy  so  much,  tilled  the  room  with 
a  sweet,  sickly  odor,  and  for  many,  many  years  she 
remembered  now  faint  it  made  her  feel.  But  'twas 
a  pleasant  faintness  now;  everything  was  pleasant,  for 


114  THE   LETTER   RECEIVED. 

wasn't  she  going  home,  back  to  Redstone  Hall — back 
to  Frederic,  who,  if  he  didn't  love  her  now,  would 
learn  to  love  her,  for  Mrs.  Burt  said  so  ;  Mrs.  Bnrt,  who 
knew  almost  as  much  as  Dinah,  and  who,  even  while 
she  thought  of  her,  was  coming  up  the  narrow  stairs. 
Marian  heard  her  put  her  dripping  umbrella  beside 
the  door,  but  for  her  life  she  could  not  move.  If  she 
should  be  disappointed  after  all,  she  said,  and  she 
tried  to  see  how  many  she  could  count  before  she 
knew  for  certain. 

"  A  letter — oh,  have  you  a  letter  for  me  ?"  she  at- 
tempted to  say,  when  Mrs.  Burt  came  in,  but  she  could 
not  articulate  a  word,  and  the  good  lady,  wishing  to 
tease  her  a  little,  leisurely  took  off  her  overshoes, 
hung  up  her  shawl,  wiped  her  damp  bonnet  with  a 
handkerchief,  and  looked  at  the  dumplings  and  then 
said,  as  indifferently  as  if  the  happiness  of  a  young  life 
was  not  to  be  crushed  by  what  she  hpd  in  her  pocket, 
"it  rains  awfully  down  street !" 

"I  know* — but  the  letter — was  there  a  letter?"  and 
Marian's  blue  eyes  looked  dark  with  excitement.  "Yes, 
child,  there  was,  but  where  it  was  mailed  I  don't  know. 
'Tis  directed  to  me,  and  is  from  Kentucky,  but  I  can't 
make  out  the  post  mark  mor'n  the  dead.  It's  some 
kind  of  Forks,  but  the  postmaster  will  never  set  the 
Hudson  on  rire  with  his  writing." 

"  Forks  of  Elkhorn,"  cried  Marian,  snatching  at  the 
letter.  "It's  Frederic's  superscription,  too,  and  daU-d 
ever  so  many  days  ago.  Dear  Frederic,  he  didn't 
wait  a  minute  before  he  wrote,"  and  she  pressed  to 
her  lips  the  handwriting  of  Isabel  liuntington  ! 

The  envelope  was  torn  open — the  enclosed  sheet 
was  withdrawn,  but  about  it  there  was  a  strangely 
familiar  look.  Was  there  a  film  before  Marian's  eyes? 
Was  she  growing  blind,  or  did  she  recognize  her  own 
letter-1— the  one  she  had  sent  to  Redstone  Hall  ?  It 
was  the  eame — for  it  said  "  Dear  Frederic  "  at  the  toj), 
and  "  Marian  "  at  the  bottom  !  And  he  had  returned  it 
to  her  unanswered — not  a  word — not  a  line — nothing 


THE   LETTER   RECEIVED.  115 

but  sitence,  as  cold,  as  hard  and  as  terrible  as  the  feel- 
ing settling  down  on  Marian's  heart.  But  yes  —  there 
was  one  line  —  only  one,  and  it  read  —  oh,  horror,  could 
it  be  that  he  would  mock  her  thus  —  that  he  would 
tear  out  her  bleeding  heart  and  trample  it  beneath  his 
feet,  by  offering  her  this  cruel  insult. 

"Isabel  Huntington  is  now  the  mistress  of  Redstone 


This  was  the  drop  in  the  brimming  bucket,  and  if 
she  had  suffered  death  when  the  great  sorrow  came 
upon  her  once  before,  she  suffered  more  now  a  hundred 
fold.  In  her  ignorance  she  fancied  they  were  married, 
for  how  else  could  Isabel  he  mistress  there,  and  she 
comprehended  at  once  the  shame  —  the  disgrace  such 
a  proceeding  would  bring  to  Frederic/  and  the  wrong, 
the  dishonor,  the  insult  it  brought  to  her.  There  was 
a  look  of  anguish  in  her  eye  and  a  painful  contraction 
of  the  muscles  about  her  mouth.  There  were  purple 
spots  upon  her  flesh,  which  seemed  wasting  away 
while  she  sat  there,  and  a  note  of  agony,  rarely  heard 
by  human  ear,  was  in  her  voice,  as  she  cried,  "No, 
no,  no  —  it  is  too  soon  —  too  soon  —  anything  but  that," 
and  the  little  Marian  who,  half  an  hour  before,  had 
heard  tlie  ticking  of  the  clock  and  listened  to  the  rain, 
lay  in  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Burt,  a  white,  motionless  thing, 
unconscious  of  pain,  unconscious  of  everything.  She 
had  suffered  all  she  could  suffer,  and  henceforth  no 
sorrow  which,  could  come  to  her  would  eat  into  her 
heart's  core  as  this  last  one  had  done. 

Mrs.  Burt  thought  she  was  dead,  as  did  those  who 
came  at  her  loud  call,  but  the  old  physician  said  there 
was  lite,  adding,  as  he  looked  at  the  blue  pinched  lips 
and  shrunken  face  :  "The  more'*  the  pity,  for  she  has 
had  some  awful  blow,  and  if  she  lives  she'll  probably 
be  a  raving  maniac." 

Poor  Marian  !  As  time  passed  on  the  physician's 
words  seemed  likely  to  be  verih'ed.  For  days  she  lay 
in  the  same  death-like  stupor,  and  when  at  last  she 
voused  from  it,  'twas  only  to  tear  her  hair  and  rave  iu 


116  THE    LETTER    RECEIVED. 


delirium.  At  first,  Mrs.  Bnrt,  who  had  examined 
the  letter,  thought  of  writing  to  Frederic  and  telling 
him  the  result  of  his  cruel  message,  the  truth,  of  which 
she  did  not  believe  ;  but  she  seldom  acted  without  ad- 
vice, so  she  wrote  first  to  Ben,  who  came  quickly,  cry- 
ing like  a  very  child,  and  wringing  his  great  rough 
hands  when  he  saw  the  swaying,  tossing  form  upon 
the  bed  and  knew  that  it  was  Marian. 

"  No,  mother,"  he  said,  "  we  won't  write.  Itr's  a  lie 
the  villain  told  her,  but  we  will  let  him  be  till  she's 
dead.  God  will  find  him  fast  enough,  the  rascal  !"  and 
Ben  struck  his  fist  upon  the  bureau  as  if  lie  would  like  to 
.take  the  management  of  Frederic  into  his  own  hands. 

It  was  a  long  and  terrible  sickness  which  came  to 
Marian,  and  when  the  delirium  was  on,  the  very  ele- 
ments of  her  nature  seemed  changed.  For  her  hair 
she  conceived  an  intense  loathing;  and  clutching  at 
her  long  tresses,  she  would  tear  them  from  her  head 
and  shake  them  from  her  fingers,  whispering  scorn- 
fully: 

<%  Go,  you  vile  red  things!  He  hates  you,  and  so 
do  I." 

"  Better  shave  the  hull  concern  and  not  let  her  yank 
it  out  like  that,"  said  Ben  ;  and  when  she  became 
more  and  more  ungovernable,  he  passed  his  arms 
around  her  and  held  fast  her  little  hands,  while  her 
head  was  shorn  of  the  locks  once  so  displeasing  to 
Frederic  Raymond. 

Ben's  taste,  however,  was  diifcrent,  and  putting 
them  reverently  together,  he  dropped  great  tears  upon 
them,  and  then  laid  them  carefully  away,  thinking: 
"  'Twill  be  something  to  look  at  when  she's  gone.  Poor 
little  picked  bird,"  tie  would  say  as  he  watched  by 
her  side  and  listened  to  her  moaning  cries  for  home, 
"you'll  be  out  of  your  misery  afore  long,  and  go  to 
a'nough  sight  better  hum  th.ui  Red  stun  Hall  ;  but  I 
hev  my  doubts  'bout  meetin'  him  there.  Poor  little 
girl  if  you  hadn't  been  born  a  lady  and  I  hadn't  been 
born  a  fool,  and  we'd  been  brung  up  together,  mabby 


THE    LETTER    RECEIVED.  117 

you  wouldn't  be  a  lyin'  here  a  biting  your  tongue  and 
wring! n'  your  hands,  with  your  head  shaved  slick  and 
clean,"  and  the  sweat  dropped  from  Ben's  face,  as  lie 
thought  of  what  under  widely  different  circumstances 
might  have  been.  "But  it  can't  be  now,"  he  said,  "  for 
even  if  she  wan't  jined  to  this  villain  she  loves  so  . 
much,  she's  as  far  above  Ben  Burt  as  the  stars  in 
Heaven." 

This,  however,  did  not  lessen  Ben's  attentions  in  the 
least,  or  stay  his  tears  when  he  thought  that  she  would 
die.  "  She  should  be  buried  in  Greenwood,"  he  said  ; 
il  he'd  got  more'n  two  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank  at 
Ware,  all  arnt  honest,  with  hard  work;  and  if  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  a  stun  forty  feet  high  she  should 
have  it,  and  he'd  get  som  o'  them  that  scribbled  for  a 
living  to  write  a  piece  ;  there  should  be  a  big  funeral, 
too — he  could  hire  carriages  as  well  as  the  best  of 
'em — and  he'd  have  a  procession  so  long  that  folks 
would  stop  and  stare,  and  Frederic  Raymond  wouldn't 
be  ashamed  on't  either,  the  scalliway — he  hoped  when 
he  and  Isabel  came  to  die  they'd  be  pitched  into  the 
canal  where  the  water  was  considerable  kind  o'  dirty, 
too  !" 

This  long  speech  relieved  Ben  somewhat,  and  fully 
determined  to  carry  out  his  promise,  he  staid  patiently 
by  Marian,  nor  experienced  one  feeling  of  regret  when 
lie  beard  that,  owing  to  his  prolonged  absence,  his 
place  in  Ware  had  been  given  to  another. 

"  Nobody  cares,"  he  said,  "  I  can  find  something  to 
do  if  it's  nothin'  but  sawin'  wood." 

So  he  remained  at  home  through  all  the  winter 
days,  and  watched  by  the  sick  girl,  who  talked  pit- 
eously  of  her  home,  of  Alice,*  and  tftat  man  who 
hated  her  so.  She  never  spoke  his  name,  but  she 
sometimes  begged  of  him  to  come  and  take  her  away 
where  it  didn  t  thunder  all  the  time.  The  roar  of  the 
city  disturbed  her,  and  she  frequently  besought  Ben  to 
go  and  stop  it  so  that  she  could  sleep  and  be  better  in 
the  morning;  and  Ben,  had  it  been  in  his  power, 


\ 


118  THE    LETTER   RECEIVED. 

would  have  stayed  the  busy  life  around  them,  and  let 
the  weary,  worn-out  sufferer  sleep.  But  this  could 
not  be,  and  so,  day  after  day  the  heavy,  incessant  roar 
came  through  the  curtained  window  into  the  darkened 
room,  where  Marian  lay  moaning  in  her  pain.  Once 
in  her  unconsciousness  she  folded  meekly  her  thin 
hands  and  prayed,  "  Will  God  stop  that  noise  and  let 
me  sleep  just  once?"  then  with  an  expression  of  child- 
ish trust  upon  her  face,  she  said  to  those  around  her, 
"  He  will  stop  it  to-morrow,  I  reckon." 

And  when  the  winter  snows  all  were  fallen,  and  the 
early  March  sun  shone  upon  the  kitchen  walls,  the 
to-morrow  so  much  longed  for  came,  and  Marian 
woke  at  last  to  consciousness,  ^he  was  out  of  danger, 
the  physician  said,  though  it  might  be  long  ere  her 
health  was  fully  restored.  To  Marian,  this  announce- 
ment brought  but  little  joy.  "  She  had  hoped  to  die," 
she  said,  "  and  thus  be  out  of  the  way."  and  then  she 
spoke  of  Redstone  Hall,  asking  if  any  tidings  had 
come  from  there  since  the  dreadful  message  she  had 
received.  There  was  none,  for  Isabel  Huntington 
guarded  her  secret  well,  and  Frederic  Raymond  knew 
nothing  of  the  white,  emaciated  wreck  which  prayed 
each  day  that  he  might  be  happy  with  the  companion 
he  had  chosen. 

"  If  he  had  only  waited,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Bnrt  and 
Ben,  one  day  when  she  was  able  to  be  bolstered  up  in 
bed,  "  if  he  had  waited  and  not  taken  her  so  soon,  I 
shouldn't  care  so  much,  but  its  awful  to  think  of  his 
living  with  her  after  I  wrote  that  letter." 

"Marian,"  said  Ben,  a  little  impatiently,  "  I'm  na- 
turally a  fool,  so  every  body  says,  but  I've  sense 
enough  to  know  that  Mr.  Raymond  never  went  and 
married  that  woman  so  quick  after  you  came  away; 
'tain't  reasonable  at  all.  Why,  they'd  mob  him — tar 
and  feather  him — for  you  ain't  dead,  and  he's  no  busi- 
ness with  two  wives." 

Marian's,  face  was  whiter  than  ever  when  Ben  fin- 
ished speaking,  and  a  bright  red  spot  burned  on  her 


THE   LETTER   RECEIVED.  119 

cheek  us  she  gasped,  "  You  didn't, — you  can't  believe 
she's  there  and  not  his  wife.  That  would  be  worse 
than  everything  else." 

"  Of  course  I  don't,"  returned  Ben.  "  My  'pinion  is 
that  she  ain't  there  at  all,  and  he  only  writ  that  to 
make  a  clean  finish  of  you,  or  'tany  rate,  so't  you 
wouldn't  be  coming  back  to  bother  him.  He  cal- 
kerlates  to  have  her  bimeby.  I  presume — say  in 
seven  years." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  knew,"  said  Marian,  and  Ben  replied, 
"Would  you  rest  any  easier  nights  if  you  did  ?" 

"  Yes,  a  heap,"  was  the  answer,  and  the  great,  blue 
eyes  looked  wistfully  at  Ben,  as  if  anxious  that  he 
should  clear  up  the  mystery. 

"You  might  write,"  suggested  Mrs.  Burt;  but 
Marian  shook  her  head,  saying,  "  I  wrote  once,  and 
you  know  my  success." 

"  You  certainly  wouldn't  go  back,"  continued  Mrs. 
Burt;  and  Marian  answered  indignantly,  "  Never !  I 
am  sure  he  hates  me  now,  and  I  shall  not  trouble  him 
again.  Perhaps  he  thinks  me  mean  because  I  read 
the  letter  intended  for  him,  and  so  found  it  all  out. 
But  I  thought  it  was  mine  until  I  read  a  ways,  and 
then  I  could  not  stop.  My  eyes  wouldn't  leave  the 
paper.  Was  it  wrong  in  me,  do  you  think  ?" 

It  is  what  anybody  would  have  done,"  answered 
Mrs.  Burt,  and,  changing  the  subject  entirely,  Marian 
rejoined,  "  Oh,  I  do  wish  I  knew  about  this  Isabel.' 

For  a  time  Ben  sat  thinking;  then  striking  his 
hands  together,  he  exclaimed,  "  I've  got  it,  and  it's 
jest  the  thing,  too.  I  don't  want  no  better  fun  than 
that.  I've  lost  my  place  to  Ware,  and  though  I  might 
get  another,  I've  a  notion  to  turn  peddler.  I  allus 
thought  I  should  like  travellin'  and  seem'  the  world. 
I'll  buy  up  a  lot  of  jimcracks  and  take  a  bee  line  for 
Redstau  Hall,  and  learn  just  how  the  matter  stands. 
I  can  put  on  a  little  more  of  the  Down  East  Yankee, 
if  yon  think  I  hain't  got  enough,  and  I'll  pull  the  wool 
over  their  eyes.  What  do  you  say,  wee  one?" 


110  THE    LETTER    BECEIVKD. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Marian,  adding  in 
the  same  breath,  "what  will  you  do,  if  you  find  him 
the  husband  of  Isabel?" 

"Do!"  he  repeated.     "String 'em  both  up  by  the 
neck    on    one   string.     What  do   you  'spect  I'd  do? 
Honest,  though,"  he  continued,  as  he  saw  her  look  of 
alarm;  "if  she  is  his  wife,  which  ain't  at  all  likely,* 
'tis  because  he  s'posed  you're  dead,  but  he  knows  bet- 
ter now,  and  I   shall  tell    the  neighbors   that   you're 
alive  and  breathin',  and  they  can  do  with  him  what 
they  choose — and   if    they  ain't    married,    nor    ain't 
nothin',  I'll  just  do  what  you  say." 

"Come  b:ick,  and  don't  tell  Frederic  you  ever  saw 
or  heard  of  me,"  said  Marian.  u  I  shall  not  live  a 
great  while,  and  even  if  I  do,  I'd  rather  not  trouble 
him.  It  would  only  make  him  hate  me  worse,  and 
that  I  couldn't  bear.  He  knows  now  where  I  am,  and 
it  he  ever  wants  me,  he  will  come.  Don't  tell  him, 
nor  any  one,  a  word  of  me,  Ben,  but  do  go,  for  I  long 
to  hear  from  home." 

To  Mrs.  Burt  this  project  seemed  a  wild  and  foolish 
on^,  but  she  rarely  opposed  her  son,  and  when  se  saw 
that  he  was  determined,  she  said  nothing,  but  helped 
him  all  she  could. 

"  You'll  be  wan  tin'  to  send  some  jimcrack  to  that 
blind  gal,  I  guess,"  he  said  to  Marian  one  day,  and  sjie 
replied,  "  I  wish  I  could,  but  I  havn't  anything,  and 
besides  you  mustn't  tell  her  of  me." 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  answered  Ben.  "  I've  passed 
rny  word,  and  I  never  broke  it  yet.  I  can  manage  to 
give  her  somethin'  and  make  it  seem  natural.  What 
do  you  say  to  inakin'  her  a  bracelet  out  o'  them  curls 
of  yourn  that  we  shaved  off?" 

"  That  red  hair  !  Frederic  would  know  it  at  once," 
and  Marian  s-hook  her  head  ruefully,  but  Ben  persisted. 
"  'Twould  look  real  pretty,  just  like  gingerbread  when 
'twas  braided  tight,"  iind  bringing  out  the  curls,  he 
selected  the  longest  one,  and  hurried  off'. 

The  result  proved  his  words  correct,  for  when  a  few 


THE   LETTER   RECEIVED.  121 

days  after  he  brought  home  the  little  bracelet,  which 
was  fastened  with  a  neat  golden  clasp,  Marian  exclaim- 
ed with  dejight  at  the  soft  beauty  of  her  hair : 

"  Darling  Alice,"  she  cried,  Idssing  the  tiny  orna- 
ment, "  I  wish  she  could  know  that  my  lips  have 
touched  it — that  it  once  grew  on  my  head — but  it 
wouldn't  be  best.  She  couldn't  keep  the  secret,  and 
you  mustn't  tell." 

"  Don't  worry,  I  say,"  returned  Ben.  "  I've  got  an 
idee  in  my  brains  for  a  wonder,  and  I'm  jest  as  'fraid 
of  tellin'  as  you  be.  So  cheer  up  a  bit  and  grow  fat, 
while  I'm  gone,  for  I  want  you  to  be  well  when  I  come 
back,  so  as  to  go  to  school  and  get  to  be  a  great 
scholar,  that  Mr.  .Raymond  won't  be  ashamed  on  when 
the  right  time  comes,"  and  Ben  spoke  as  cheerfully  as 
if  within  his  heart  there  was  no  grave  where  during 
the  weary  nights  when  he  watched  with  Marian  he 
buried  his  love  for  her,  and  vowed  to  think  of  her  only 
as  a  cherished  sister. 

Marian  smiled  pleasantly  upon  him,  watching  him 
with  interest  as  he  made  up  his  pack,  consisting  of 
laces,  ribbons,  muslin,  handkerchiefs,  combs  and  jew- 
elry, a  little  real,  and  a  good  deal  brass,  "for  the  nig- 
gers," he  said.  Many  were  the  charges  she  gave  him 
concerning  the  blacks,  telling  him  which  ones  to  notice 
particularly,  so  as  to  report  to  her. 

"  Jehosiphat!"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  '•  how  many  is 
there?  I  shall  never  remember  iti  the  world,"  arid 
taking  out  a  piece- of  paper,  he  wrote  upon  it,  "  Dinah, 
Hetty,  Lid,  Victory,  Uncle  Phil,  Josh,  and  the  big 
dog.  There  I"  said  he,  reading  over  the  list^  "  if  I  don't 
bring  you  news  of  every  one,  my  name  ain't  Ben 
Burt.  I'll  wiggle  myself  inter  their  good  feelin's  and 
get  'em  to  talkin'  of  you,  see  if  I  don't." 

Marian  had  the  utmost  confidence  in  Ben's  success, 
and  though  she  knew  she  should  be  lonely  when  he  was 
gone,  she  was  glad  when,  at  last,  the  morning  came 
for  him  to  leave  them.  Ben,  too,  was  equally  delight- 

6 


THE    LETTEK   RECEIVED. 


ed,  for  the  novelty  lent  a  double  charm  to  the  project  ; 
and,  bidding  his  mother  and  Marian  good-by,  he  gath- 
ered up  his  large  boxes,  and  whistling  a  lively  tune, 
by  way  of  keeping  up  his  spirits,  started  for  Ken- 
tucky. 


CHAPTER 

THE      TANKEE      PEDDLER. 

THE  warm,  balmy  April  day  was  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  the  rajs  of  the  setting  sun  shone  like 
burnished  gold  on  the  western  windows  of  Redstone 
Hall.  It  was  very  pleasant  there  now,  for  the  early 
spring  flowers  were  all  in  blossom,  the  grass  was 
growing  fresh  and  green  upon  the  lawn,  and  the  creep- 
ing vines  were  clinging  lovingly  to  the  time-worn  pil- 
lars, or  climbing  np  the  massive  walls  of  dark  red 
stone,  which  gave  the  place  its  name.  The  old  negroes 
had  returned  from  their  labors,  and  were  lounging 
about  their  cabins,  while  the  younger  portion  looked* 
wistfully  in  at  the  kitchen  door,  where  Dinah  and 
Hetty  were  busy  in  preparing  supper.  On  the  back 
piazza  several  dogs  were  lying,  and  as  their  quick 
ears  caught  the  sound  of  a  gate  in  the  distance,  the 
whole  pack  started  up  and  went  tearing  down  the 
avenue,  followed  by  the  furious  yell  of  Bruno,  who 
tried  in  vain  to  escape  from  his  confinement. 

"  Thar's  somebody  comin',''  said  Dinah,  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  and  looking  toward  the  highway  ; 
"  somebody  with  so  me  thin'  on  his  back.  You,  Josh, 
go  after  them  dogs,  afore  they  skeer  him  to  death." 

Stuttering   out   some    unintelligible    speech,    Josh 
started  in   the   direction  the  dogs  had  gone,  and  soon 
'  came  up  to  a  tall  six-footer,  who,  with  short  panta- 
loons,   a   swallow-tailed    coat,    stove-pipe   hat,  sharp- 
pointed  collar,  red  necktie,  and  two  huge  boxes  on  hia 


124:  THE   YANKEE   PEDDLES. 

back,  presented  a  rather  ludicrous  appearance  to  the 
boy,  and  a  rather  displeasing  one  to  the  do.ujs.,  who 
growled  angril}r,  as  if  they  would  pounce  upon  him  at 
once.  The  club,  however,  with  which  he  had  armed 
himself  kept  them  at  bay,  until  Josh  succeeded  in 
quieting  them  down. 

"  Ra-ally,  now,"  began  our  friend  Ben,  who  vainly 
imagined  it  necessary  to  put  on  a  little,  by  way  of 
proving  himself  a  genuine  Yankee — "  ra-ally,  now 
boot-black,  what's  the  use  of  keepiii'  sich  a  'tarnal  lot 
o'  dogs  to  worry  a  decent  chap  like  me." 

It  was  Josh's  misfortune  to  stammer  much  more 
when  at  all  excited,  and  to  this  interrogatory  he 
began,  "  Caw-caw-caw-cause  ma-ma-mars  wa-wa- 
want " 

"  Great  Heaven  !"  interrupted  the  Yankee,  setting 
down  his  pack  and  eyeing  the  stuttering  negro  as  if 
he  had  been  the  hist  curiosity  from  Barnmn's — "  will 
you  tell  a  fellow  what  kind  of  language  you  speak." 

"  Spe-pe-pe-pects  sa-sa-sume  ye-e-e  yon  do,"  return- 
ed the  negro,  failing  wholly  to  enlighten  Ben,  who  re- 
joined indignantly,  "  You  go  to  grass  with  your 
lingo  ;"  and,  gathering  up  his  boxes,  he  started  for  the 
house,  accompanied  by  Josh  and  the  dogs,  the  iirst  of 
which  made  several  ineffectual  attempts  at  conversa- 
tion. 

"Some  nateral  born  fool,"  muttered  Ben,  thinking 
to  himself  that  he  would  like  to  examine  the  boy's 
mouth  and  see  what  ailed  it. 

After  a  few  minutes  they  entered  the  yard,  and 
came  up  to  the  other  blacks,  who  were  curiously 
watching  the  new  comer.  Seating  himself  upon  the 
steps  and  crossing  one  leg  over  the  other,  Beu  swung 
his  cowhide  boot  forward  and  back,  and  greeted  them 
with,  "  wall,  uncles,  and  ants,  and  cousins,  how  do  you 
dew,  and  how  do  you  lind  yourselves  this  after- 
noon I" 

u  Jest  tolerable,  thanky,"  answered  uncle  Phil,  and 
Ben  continued,  "  wall,  health  is  a  great  blessing  to  them 


THE   YANKEE   PEDDLEB.  125 

that  hain't  got  it.  Do  you  calkerlate  that  I  could  stay 
here  to  night?  I've  got  lots  o'  gewgaws,"  pointing  to 
his  boxes  — "  hankerchers,  pins,  ear-rings  and  a  red  and 

£  slier  gownd  that'll  jest  suit  you,  old  gall,"  nodding  to 
inali,  who  muttered  gruffly,  '•  if  he  calls  me  old 
what'll  he  say  to  Hetty  ?" 

Ben  saw  he  had  made  a  mistake,  for  black  women 
no  more  care  to  be  old  than  their  fairer  sisters,  and  he 
tried  to  make  amends  by  complimenting  the  indig- 
nant lady  until  she  was  somewhat  mollilied,  when  he 
asked  again  if  he  could  stay  all  night  ? 

"You,  Josh,",  said  Uncle  Phil,  "go"  and  tell  yer 
master  to  come  here." 

"  Whew-ew,"  whistled  Ben,  "  if  you're  goiri'  to  send 
that  stutterin'  critter,  I  may  as  well  be  joggin',  for  no 
human  can  make  out  his  rigmarole." 

But  Ben  was  mistaken.  Josh's  dialect  was  well  un- 
derstood by  Frederic,  who  came  as  requested,  and, 
standing  in  the  door,  gazed  inquisitively  at  the  singu- 
lar looking  object  seated  upon-  his  steps,  and  appa- 
rently oblivious  to  everything  save  the  sliver  he  was 
trying  to  extract  from  his  thumb  with  a  large  pin,  eja- 
culating occasionally,  "  gaul  darn  the  pesky  tiling." 

Nothing,  however,  escaped  the  keen  grey  eyes 
which  from  time  to  time  peered  out  from  beneath  the 
stove-pipe  hat.  Already  Ben  had  seen  that  Redstone 
Hall  was  a  most  beautiful  spot,  and  he  did  not  blame 
Frederic  for  disliking  to  give  it  up.  He  had  selected 
Dinah  and  Phil  from  the  other  blacks,  and  had  said 
that  the  baby,  who,  with  a  small  white  dog,  was  dis- 
puting its  right  to  a  piece  of  fat  bacon  and  a  chicken 
bone,  was  Victoria  Eugenia.  Josh  he  identified  by  his 
name,  and  he  was  wondering  at  Marian's  taste  in  car- 
ing to  hear  from  him,  when  Frederic  appeared,  and 
all  else  was  forgotten  in  his  eagerness  to  inspect  the 
man  "  who  could  make  a  gal  bite  her  tongue  in  two 
and  yank  her  hair  out  by  the  roots,  all  for  the  love  of 
him." 

Frederic  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  commence  a  con- 


126  THE   YANKEE    PEDDLEB. 

versation,  and  during  the  minute  that  he  stood  there 
without  speaking,  Ben  had  ample  time  to  take  him 
in  from  his  brown  hair  and  graceful  mustache  down  to 
his  polished  boots. 

"  Got  up  in  considerable  kind  of  good  style,"  was 
Ben's  mental  comment,  as  he  watched  the  young  man 
carelessly  scraping  his  finger  nail  with  a  pen-knife. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  see  me  ?"  Frederic  said  at  last, 
and  with  another  thrust  at  the  sliver,  Ben  stuck  his 
pin  upon  his  coat  sleeve,  and  reversing  the  position  of 
Iris  legs,  replied,  "wall,  if  you're  the  boss, -I  guess  I 
dew;  I'm  Ben  Butterworth  from  down  East,  and  I've 
got  belated,  and  bein'  there  ain't  no  taverns  near  I 
want  to  stay  all  night,  and  pay  in  money  or  notions, 
Got  a  lot  on  'em,  besides  some  tip  top  muslin  collars 
for  your  wife,  Mrs.,  what  do  you  call  her  ?"  and  the 
gray  eyes  glistened  themselves  upon  the  face,  which 
for  a  single  instant  was  white  as  marble — then  the 
hot  blood  came  rushing  back,  and  Frederic  replied, 
"  there  is  no  wife  here,  sir,  but  you  can  stay  all  night 
if  you  please.  Will  you  walk  in  ?"  and  he  led 
the  way  to  the  sitting-room,  followed  by  Ben,  who  had 
obtained  what  to  him  was  the  most  important  infor- 
mation of  all. 

The  night  was  chilly,  and  in  the  grate  a  cheerful 
coal  tire  was  burning,  casting  its  ruddy  light  upon  the 
face  of  a  little  girl,  who,  seated  upon  a  stool,  with 
her  hair  combed  back  from  her  sweet  face,  her  waxen 
hands  folded  together  and  her  strange  brown  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  coals  as  if  she  were  looking  at  :-ome- 
thing  far  beyond  them,  seemed  to  Ben  what  he  had 
fancied  angels  in  heaven  to  be.  It  was  not  needful  for 
Mr.  Raymond  to  say,  "  Alice,  here  is  a  peddler  come 
to  stay  all  night,"  for  Ben  knew  it  was  the  blind  girl, 
and  his  heart  gave  a  great  throb  when  he  saw  her  sit- 
ting theie  so  beautiful,  so  helpless,  and  so  lonely,  too, 
for  he  almost  knew  that  she  waa  thinking  of  Marian, 
and  he  longed  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her  of 
the  lost  one. 


THE   YANKEE   PEDDLER.  127 

Motioning  him  to  a  chair,  Frederic  went  ont,  leaving 
them  together.  For  some  minutes  there  was  perfect 
Bilence,  while  Ben  sat  looking  at  her  and  trying  hard 
to  keep  from  crying.  It  seemed  terrible  to  him  that 
one  so  young  should  be  blind,  and  he  wanted  to  tell 
her  so,  but  he  dared  not,  and  lie  sat  so  still  that  Alice 
began  to  think  she  was  alone,  and,  resuming  her  for- 
mer thoughts,  whispered  softly  to  herself,  "  oh,  I  wish 
she  would  come  back." 

"  Blessed  baby,"  Ben  had  almost  ejaculated,  but 
he  checked  himself  in  time,  and  said  instead,  "  little 
gal." 

Alice  started,  and  turning  her  ear,  seemed  waiting 
for  him  to  speak  again,  which  he  did  soon. 

"  Little  gai,  will  you  come  and  sit  in  my  lap  ?" 

His  voice  was  gentle  and  kind,  but  Alice  did  not 
care  to  be  thus  free  with  a  stranger,  so  she  replied, 
"  I  reckon  I  won't  do  thpt,  but  I'll  sit  nearer  to  you," 
and  she  moved  her  stool  so  close  by  him  that  her  head 
almost  rested  on  his  lap. 

"  You  must  'scuse  me,"  she  said, "  if  I  don't  act  like 
other  children  do — I'm  blind." 

Very  tenderly  he  smoothed  her  silken  hair,  and  as 
he  did  so,  she  felt  something  drop  upon  her  forehead. 
It  was  a  tear,  and  wiping  it  away,  she  said  : 

"  Man,  be  you  hungry  and  tired,  or  what  makes  you 
cy?" 

-•  I'm  cryin'  for  3*011,  poor,  unfortunate  lamb ;"  and 
the  tender-hearted  Ben  sobbed  out  aloud. 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't,  I  wouldn't,"  said  the  distressed 
child — "  I'm  used  to  it.  I  don't  mind  it  now." 

The  ice  was  fairly  broken,  and  a  bond  of  sympathy 
established  between  the  two. 

"He  must  be  a  good  man,"  Alice  thought;  and 
when  he  began  to  question  her  of  her  home  and  friends, 
she  replied  to  him  readily. 

"  You  haven't  no  mother,  nor  sister,  nor  a'nt,  nor 
nothin',  but  Mr.  Raymond  and  Dinah,"  said  Ben,  after 


128  THE   YANKEE   PEDDLES. 

they  had  talked  awhile.  "  Ain't  there  no  white  women 
iu  the  house  bnt  you?" 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Huntington  and  Isabel.  She's  my  gcv- 
erness,"  answered  Alice ;  and,  conscious  of  a  pang, 
Ben  continued  : 

*'  Mr.  Raymond  sent  for  'em,  I  s'pose  ?" 

"  No,"  returned  Alice.  "  They  came  without  send- 
ing for — came  to  visit,  and  he  hired  them  to  stay.  Mrs 
Huntington  keeps  house. n 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  there  was  a  rust- 
ling of  garments  in  the  hall,  and  a  splendid,  queenly 
creature  swept  into  the  room,  bringing  with  her  such 
an  air  of  superiority  that  Ben  involuntarily  hitched 
nearer  to  the  wall,  as  if  to  get  out  of  sight. 

"  Je-ru-sa-lem  !  ain't  she  a  dasher?"  was  his  mental 
exclamation;  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  followed  her 
movements  with  an  admiring  glance. 

'•  Taking  a  chair,  she  drew  it  to  the  fire,  and,  with- 
out deigning  to  notice  the  stranger,  she  said,  rather 
reprovingly, 

"  Alice,  come  here." 

The  child  obeyed,  and  Ben,  determined  not  to  be 
ignored  entirely,  said  : 

"Pretty  well  this  evenin',  miss?" 

"How,  sir?"  and  the  black  eyes  flashed  haughtily 
upon  him. 

Nothing  abashed,  he  continued  :  "  As't  you  if  you're 
pretty  well,  but  no  matter,  I  know  you  to  be  by  your 
looks.  I've  got  a  lot  of  finery  that  I  know  you  want." 
And  on  opening  his  boxes,  he  spread  out  upon  the 
carpet  the  collars  and  under-sleeves,  which  had  been 
bought  with  a  view  to  this  very  night.  Very  disdain- 
fully Isabel  tuined  away,  saying  she  never  traded  with 
peddlers. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  don't,"  returned  Ben,  with  imper- 
turbable gravity.  "  Wall,  now,  seein'  it's  me,  buy 
eomethin',  dew.  Here's  a  bracelet  that  can't  be  beat," 
and  he  held  up  to  view  Marian's  soft  hair,  which,  in 
the  bright  firelight,  looked  singularly  beautiful. 


THE   YANKEE    PEDDLEE.  129 

Isabel  did  unbend  a  little  now.  There  was  no  sham 
about  that,  she  knew,  and,  taking  it  in  her  hand,  she 
tried  to  clasp  it  on  her  round,  white  arm  ;  but  it  would 
not  come  together.  It  was  not  made  for  her! 

"  It  isn't  large  enough,"  said  she ;  "  it  must  have 
been  intended  for  some  child." 

"Shouldn't  wonder  if  you'd  hit  the  nail  right  on  the 
head,"  returned  Ben,  and  taking  the  bracelet  he  con- 
tinned,  "  Mebby  'twas  meant  for  this  wee  one — who 
knows  ?"  and  he  fastened  it  on  Alice's  slender  wrist. 
"  Fits  to  a  T,"  said  he,  "  and  you  have  it,  too.  Them 
clasps  is  little  hearts,  do  you  see?" 

Frederic  now  entered  the  room,  and  holding  up  her 
arm,  Alice  said,'"  Look,  is  it  pretty  ?" 

"Yes,  very,"  he  replied,  bending  down  to  examine 
it,  while  Ben  watched  him  narrowly,  wondering  how 
he  would  feel  if  he  knew  from  whose  tresses  that  braid 
was  made. 

"  Harnsome  color,  ain't  it,  Square  ?"  he  said,  hold- 
ing Alice's  hand  a  little  more  to  the  light,  and  con- 
tinuing, "Now  there's  them  that  don't  like  red  hair, 
but  I  s\van  I've  seen  some  that  wan't  so  bad.  Now 
when  it  curls  kinder — wall,  like  a  gimblet,  you  know. 
I've  got  a  gal  to  hum  I  call  my  sister,  and  her  hair's  as 
nigh  this  color  as  two  peas,  or  it-  was  afore  'twas  shaved. 
She's  been  awful  sick  with  the  heart  disorder,  and 
fever,  and  I  tell  you,  Square,  if  you'd  o'  seen  her  pitch- 
in'  and  divin',  and  rollin'  from  one  end  of  the  bed  to 
t'other,  bitin'  her  tongue  and  yankin'  out  her  hair  by 
han'fuls,  I  rather  guess  you'd  felt  kinder  streaked.  It 
made  a  calf  of  me,  though  I  didn't,  feel  so  bad  then  as 
when  she  got  weaker,  and  lay  so  still  that  we  held  a 
feather  to  her  lips  to  see  if  she  breathed." 
J  "Oh,  did  she  die?"  asked  Alice,  who  had  been  an 
attentive  listener. 

"No,"  answered  Ben,  "she  didn't,  and  the  thank- 
fullest  prayer  I  ever  prayed  was  the  one  I  made  in  the 
buttery,  behind  the  door,  when  the  doctor  said  she 
would  get  well." 

6* 


J30  THE   YANKEE   PEDDLEK. 

Supper  was  announced,  and  putting  up  his  muslins, 
Ben  followed  his  host  to  the  dining  room.  Alice,  too, 
was  at  the  table,  the  bracelet  still  upon  her  wrist,  for 
she  liked  the  feeling  of  it.  "  And  she  did  so  wish  it 
was  hers/' 

"  I  shall  have  to  buy  it  for  you,  I  reckon,"  said  Fred- 
eric, and  he  inquired  its  price. 

"  Wall,  now,"  returned  Ben,  "  if 'twas  any  body  but 
the  little  gal,  I  should  say  five  dollars,  but  beiu'  it's 
hers,  I'd  kinder  like  to  give  it  to  her." 

This,  however,  Frederic  would  not  suffer.  Alice 
would  .not  keep  it,  he  said,  unless  he  paid  for  it,  and 
he  put  a  half  eagle  into  the  hand  of  the  child,  who 
offered  it  to  Ben.  For  a  moment,  the  latter  hesitated, 
then  thinking  to  himself,  "Darnt  it.  all,  what's  the  use. 
If  Marian  goes  to  school,  as  I  mean  she  shall,  she'll 
need  a  lot  of  money,  and  what  I  get  out  o'  him  is  clear 
gain,"  he  pocketed  the  piece,  and  the  bracelet  belong- 
ed to  Alice. 

After  supper,  Ben  sat  down  by  the  fire  in  the  dining- 
room,  hoping  the  family  would  leave  him  with  Alice, 
and  this  they  did  ere  long,  Isabel  going  to  the  piano, 
and  Frederic  to  the  library  to  answer  letters,  while 
Mrs.-  Huntington  gave  some  directions  for  breakfast. 
These  directions  were  merely  nominal,  however,  for 
Dinah,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  was  mistress  of  the 
household,  and  she  came  in  to  see  to  the  supper,  dishes, 
which  were  soon  cleared  away,  and  Ben,  as  he  wished, 
was  alone  with  Alice.  The  bracelet  seemed  10  be  a 
connecting  link  between  them,  for  Alice  was  not  in  the 
least  shy  of  him  now,  and  when  he  asked  her  again  to 
sit  in  his  lap,  she  did  so  readily. 

"  That  Miss  Isabel  is  a  dreadful  han'some  gal,"  he  be- 
gan ;  "  I  should  s'pose  Mr.  llaymond  would  fall  in  love 
with  her." 

No  answer  from  Alice,  whose  sightless  eyes  looked 
eteadily  into  the  fire. 

"  Mebby  he  is  in  love  with  her." 

'No    answer    yet,    and    mentally  chiding  himself 


THE   YANKEE   PEDDLER.  131 

for  his  stupidity  in  not  striking  the  right  vein,  Ben 
continued : 

"  I  wonder  he  hain't  married  afore  this.  He  must  be 
as  much  as  twenty-five  or  six  years  old,  and  so  han' 
some  too !" 

"  He  has  been  married,"  and  the  little  face  of  the 
speaker  did  not  move  a  muscle. 

"  Now  you  don't  say  it,"  returned  Ben.  "  A  widow- 
er, hey?  How  long  sence  he  was  married  ?" 

"  A  few  months,"  and  the  long  eye-lashes  quivered 
in  the  firelight  just  a  little. 

"  I  want  to  know — died  so  soon — poor  critter.  Tell 
me  about  her,  dew.  You  didn't  know  her  long,  so  I 
s'pose  you  couldn't  love  her  a  great  sight  ?" 

The  brown  eyes  flashed  up  into  Ben's  face,  and  the 
blood  rushed  to  Alice's  cheek,  as  she  replied  "  Me  not 
love  Marian  !  Oh,  I  loved  her  so  much  !" 

The  right  chord  was  touched  at  last,  and  in  her  own 
way  Alice  told  the  sad  story — how  Marian  had  left 
them  on  her  bridal  night,  and  though  they  searched 
for  her  everywhere,  both  in  the  river  and  through  the 
country,  no  trace  of  her  could  be  found,  and  the  con- 
viction was  forced  upon  them  that  she  was  dead. 

"  Je-ru-sa-lem  !  I  never  thought  of  that !"  was  Ben's 
involuntary  exclamation  ;  but  it  conveyed  no  meaning 
to  Alice,  and  when  he  asked  if  they  still  believed  her 
dead,  she  answered : 

"1  don't  quite  believe  Frederic  does.  I  don't,  any 
way.  I  used  to,  though,  but  now  it  seems  just  like  she 
would  come  back,"  and  turning  her  face  more  fully 
toward  him,  Alice  told  how  she  had  loved  the  lost  one, 
and  how  each  day  she  prayed  that  she  might  come 
home  to  them  again. 

"  I  don't  know  as  she  was  pretty,"  she  said,  "  but 
she  was  so  sweet,  so  good,  and  I'm  so  lonesome  without 
her,"  and  down  Alice's  cheeks  the  big  tears  rolled, 
while  Ben's  kept  company  with  them  and  fell  upon 
her  hands. 

"  Man,  don't  you  cry  a  heap  ?"  she  asked,  shaking  the 


J82  THE    YANKEE    PEDDLER. 

round  drops  off  and  wondering  why  a  perfect  stran- 
ger should  care  so  much  for  Marian. 

"  I'm  so  plaguy  tender-hearted  that  I  can't  help 
it,"  was  Ben's  apology,  as  he  blew  his  nose  vigor- 
ously upon  his  blue  cotton  handkerchief. 

For  a  time  longer  he  talked  with  her,  treasuring  np 
blessed  words  of  comfort  for  the  distant  Marian,  and 
learning  also  that  Alice  was  sure  Frederic  would  never 
marry  again  until  certain  of  Marian's  death.  He  might 
like  Isabel,  she  admitted,  but  he  would  not  dare  make 
her  his  wife  till  he  knew  for  trne  what  had  become  of 
Marian. 

"  And  he  does  know  it,  the  scented  up  puppy," 
thought  Ben.  "  He  jest  writ  her  that  last  insultin'  thing 
to  kill  her  out  and  out ;  but  he  didn't  come  it,  and  till 
he  knows  he  did,  he  dassent  do  nothin'." 

This  reasoning  was  very  satisfactory  to  Ben,  who, 
having  learned  from  Alice  all  that  he  could,  began  to 
think  it  was  time  to  cultivate  the  negroes,  and  putting 
the  child  from  his  knee,  he  said  "  he  guessed  he'd  go 
out  and  see  the  slaves — mebby  they'd  like  to  trade  a 
little,  and  he  must  be  off  in  the  mornin  '." 

Accordingly  he  started  for  the  kitchen,  where  his 
character  had  been  pretty  thoroughly  dissected.  A 
negro  from  a  neighboring  plantation  had  dropped  in  on 
a  gossiping  visit,  and  as  was  very  natural,  the  conversa- 
tion had  turned  upon  the  peddler,  whose  peculiar  ap- 
pearance had  attracted  much  attention  at  the  different 
places  where  he  had  stopped.  Particularly  was  this  the 
case  at  the  house  the  black  man  Henry  lived. 

'•  He  done  ask  a  heap  of  questions  about  us  colored 
folks,"  said  Henry  ;  "  how  many  was  there  of  us,  how 
old  was  we,  and  what  was  we  worth,  and  when  marster 
axed  him  did  he  want  to  buy,  he  said  "  no,  but  way  off 
whar  he  lived  he  allus  spoke  in  meetin',  and  them  fo.ks 
was  mighty  tickled  to  hear  suffin'  'bout  niggers.'  Olo 
Miss  say  how't  she  done  b'lieve  he's  an  abolution  como 
to  run  some  on  us  off,'  case  he  look  like  one  o'  the.m 
chaps  down  in  the  penitentiary." 


THE    YANKEE    PEDDLER.  133 

"  Oh.  Lord,"ejacnlated  Dinah,  involuntarily  hitching 
her  chair  nearer  to  Victoria  Eugenia,  who  lay  in  her 
cradle. 

Old  Hetty,  too,  took  alarm  at  once,  and  glancing 
nervously  at  her  own  grandchild  Dudley,  a  little  boy 
two  years  of  age,  who  was  stretched  upon  the  floor, 
"  she  hoped  to  goodness  he  wouldn't  carry  off  Dud." 

"  Jest  the  ones  he'll  pick  for.  lie  could  hide  a  dozen 
on  em  in  them  big  boxes,"  said  Henry,  and  feeling 
pleased  at  the  interest  he  had  awakened  in  the  two  old 
ladies  he  proceeded  to  relate  the  stories  he  had  heard 
"  'bout  them  fetched  Yankees  meddlin'  with  what  didn't 
consarn  'em,'  and  he  advised  Dinah  and  Hetty  both 
not  to  let  the  peddler  get  sight  of  the  children  for  fear 
of  what  might  happen. 

At  this  point  Ben  came  out  of  the  house  with  his  huge 
boxes,  lie  was  first  discovered  by  Josh,  who,  delighted 
with  the  fun,  pointed  mysteriously  toward  him  and  stut- 
tered, "  Da-da-da  'e  co  co-comes." 

"  The  Lord  help  us,"  said  Dinah  and  quick  as  thought 
she  seized  the  sleeping  Victoria  Eugenia  and  thrust 
her  into  the  churn  as  the  nearest  place  of  concealment. 

The  awakened  baby  gave  a  screech  but  Dinah  stop- 
ped its  mouth  with  a  piece  of  the  licorice  she  always 
carried  in  her  pocket  with  her  tobacco  box  and  pipe. 
Meantime  Hetty,  determined  not  to  be  outdone,  caught 
up  Dud,  and,  opening  the  meal  chest,  tumbled  him  in, 
telling  him  in  fierce  whispers  "  not  to  stir  nor  wink,  for 
thar  was  a  man  comin'  to  cotch  him." 

Snatching  a  newspaper  which  lay  on  the  floor,  she 
rolled  it  together  and  placed  it  under  the  lid,  so  as  to 
allow  the  youngster  a  breathing  place.  This  done,  she 
resumed  her  seat  just  as  Ben  appeared,  who,  throwing 
down  his  pack,  accosted  her  with — 

"  Wall,  a'nt,  got  your  chores  done  £  'Cause  if  you  have 
I  want  to  trade  a  little.  I  won't  be  hard  on  you,"  he 
continued,  as  he  saw  the  forbidding  expression  of  her 
face.  "I'll  dicker  cheap  and  take  most  any  kind  o' 
dud  for  pay." 


THE   YANKEE   PEDDLES. 

Dicker  and  chores  were  Greek  to  old  Hetty,  bnt  she 
fully  comprehended  the  word  Dud.  He  meant  her 
DUD  —  the  one  in  the  meal  chest — and  she  grasped 
the  handle  of  the  frying  pan,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  what 
might  follow  next. 

"  Let  me  show  you  some  breastpins,"  said  Ben,  look- 
ing round  for  a  chair. 

They  were  all  occupied,  and  as  the  mischievous  Josh 
pointed  to  the  chest,  Ben  crossed  over,  and  ere  Hetty 
was  aware  of  his  intention,  seated  himself  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course.  But  not  long,  for  Hetty's  dusky  fist 
flourished  in  the  air,  and,  more  than  all,  the  smothered 
cry  of  "  Granny,  granny,  he  done  sot  on  me,"  which 
came  from  beneath  him,  landed  him  on  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  where  he  struck  against  the  churn  ;  where- 
upon, Victoria  Eugenia  set  up  another  yellj  which  sent 
him  back  to  the  spot  where  Josh's  cowhides  were  per- 
forming various  evolutions  by  way  of  showing  his  de-  • 
light. 

"  Thunder !"  ejaculated  Benjooking  first  at  the  skirts 
of  his  swallow-tail,  then  at  the  chest,  from  which  Dud 
was  emerging,  covered  with  meal,  and  then  at  the  churn, 
over  the  top  of  which  a  pair  of  little  black  hands  and 
a  piece  of  licorice  were  visible,  "what's  the  meaning 
of  all  this  ?" 

No  explanation  whatever  was  vouchsafed,  and,  to 
this  day,  Ben  does  not  know  the  reason  why  those  ne- 
groes were  stowed  away  in  such  novel  hiding  places. 

.When  the  excitement  had  somewhat  subsided,  Ben 
returned  to  his  first  intention,  behaving  so  civilly  that 
the  fears  of  the  negroes  gave  way,  and  Dinah  was  so 
well  pleased  with  purchasing  a  brass  pin  at  half  price 
that  Ben  ventured,  at  last  to  say : 

"  That  little  gal,  Alice,  has  been  tellin'  me  about 
Mr.  Raymond's  marriage.  Unlucky,  wasn't  he? 
Shouldn't  wonder  though,  if  he  had  a  kind  of  hankerin' 
after  that  black-eyed  miss.  She's  han'some  as  a  pic- 
ter." 

Dinah  needed  but  this  to  loosen  her  tongue.     She 


THE   YANKEE    PEDDLEE.  135 

had  long  before  made  up  her  mind  that  "Isabel  was  no 
kind  o'  'count ;"  and  once  the  two  had  come  to  open 
hostilities,  Isabel  accusing  Dinah  of  being  a  "  lazy,  gos- 
siping nigger,"  while  Dinah,  in  return,  had  told  her 
"  she  warii't  no  better  'n  she  should  be  stickin1  'round 
after  Mars.  Frederic,  when  nobody  knew  whether  Mies 
Marian  was  dead,  of  not.  " 

This  indignity  was  reported  to  Frederic,  who  repro- 
ved old  Dinah,  sharply  ;  whereupon,  she  turned  toward 
him,  and,  to  use  her  favorite  expression,  "  gin  him  a 
piece  ot'lier  mind." 

.  After  this  it  was  generally  understood  that  between 
Dinah  and  Isabel  here  existed  no  very  amicable  state  of 
feeling,  and  when  Ben  spoke  of  the  latter,  the  former 
exploded  at  once.  * 

"  Twas  a  burnin'  shame,"  she  said,  "  and  it  mortified 
her  een-a-most  to  death  to  see  the  trollop  a  try  in'  to 
set  to  marster,  when  nobody  know'd  for  sartin  if  his 
fust  wife  was  dead," 

"Marker's  jest  as  fast  as  she,"  interposed  Hetty, 
who  seldom  agreed  with  Dinah. 

A  contemptous  sneer  curled  Dinah's  lip.  as  she  said 
to  Ben,  in  a  whisper : 

"Don't  b'lieve  none  o'  her  trash.  Them  Higginses 
all  us  would  lie.  I  hain't  never  seen  Marster  Frederic 
do  a  single  thing  out  o'  the  way,  'cept  to  look  at  her, 
jest  as  .Phil  used  to  look  at  me  when  he  was  sparkin'. 
1  don't  think  that  was  very  'spectable  in  him,  to  be 
sure,  but  looks  don't  signify.  He  dassen't  marry  her 
till  he  knows  for  sartin  t'other  one  is  dead.  He  dona 
told  Alice  so,  and  she  told  me.;"  and  then  Dinah  laun- 
ched out  into  praises  of  the  lost  Marian,  exalting  her 
BO  highly  that  Ben  tossed  into  her  lap  a  pair  of  ear- 
rings which  she  had  greatly  admired. 

"  Take  them,"  said  he,  "for  standiu'  up  for  that  poor 
runaway.  Hike  to  hear  one  woman  stick  to  another.". 

Pinah  cast  an  exulting  glance  at  Hetty,  who,  noth- 
ing daunted,  came  forward  and  said: 

"  Miss  Marian  was  as  likely  a  gal  as  thar  was  in  Ken- 


136  THE    YANKEE   PEDDLER. 

tuck,  and  she,  for  one,  should  be  as  glad  to  see  her  back 
as  some  o'  them  that  made  sich  a  fuss  about  it." 

"  Playin'  'possum,"  whispered  Dinah.  "Them 
Higginses  is  up  to  that." 

Ben  probably  thought  so  too,  for  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  Hetty,  who,  highly  indignant  started  for  Isabel, 
and  told  her  "  how  Dinah  and  that  fetch-ed  peddler 
done  spilt  her  character  entirely." 

"Leave  the  room,''  was  Isabel's  haughty  answer. 
"  I  am  above  what  a  poor  negro  and  an  ignorant  Yan- 
kee can  say." 

"  For  the  dear  Lord's  sake,"  muttered  the  discomfited 
Hetty ;"  wonder  if  she  ain't  a  Yankee  her  own  self. 
?Spects  how  she  done  forgot  whar  she  was  raised,"  and 
Hetty  returned  to  tlffe  kitchen  a  warmer  adherent  of 
Marian  than  Dinah  had  ever  been. 

She,  too,  was  very  talkative  now,  and  before  nine 
o'clock  Ben  had  learned  all  that  he  expected  to  learn, 
and  much  more.  He  had  ascertained  that  no  one  had 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  reason  why  Marian  went 
away;  that  both  Frederic  and  Isabel  seemed  unhappy; 
that  Dinah  and  Hetty,  too,  believed  "  thar  was  souie- 
tliin'  warin'  on  tlmr  minds  ;"  that  Frederic  was  discon- 
tented, and  talked  seriously  of  leaving  Redstone  Hall 
in  care  of  an  overseer,  and  moving,  in  the  Autumn  to 
to  his  residence  on  the  Hudson  ;  that  Hetty  hoped  he 
would,  and  Dinah  hoped  he  wouldn't,  k"case  if  lie  did, 
it  would  be  next  to  impossible  to  get  a  stroke  o'  work 
out  o'  them  lazy  Higginses." 

«  I've  got  all  1  come  for,  I  b'lieve,"  was  Ben's  men- 
tal comment,  as  he  left. the  kitchen  and  returned  to  the 
dining  room,  where  he  found  Frederic  alone.  "  I'll  poke 
his  ribs  a  little,"  he  thought,  and  helping  himself  to  a 
cha:r,  he  began: 

''Wall,  Square,  I've  been  out  seem'  your  niggers. 
Got  a  line  lot  on  'em,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you 
was  wo'th  considerable.  Willed  to  you  by  your  dad, 
or  was  it  a  kind  of  a  dowry  come  by  your  wife  2 
You're  a  widower,  they  say ;"  and  the  gray  eyes  looked 


THE    YANKEE    PEDDLER. 

out  at  their  corners,  as  Ben  thought,  "That'll  make 
him  squirm,  I  guess." 

Frederic  turned  very  white,  but  his  voice  was  natu- 
ral as  he  replied : 

"  My  father  was  called  the  richest  man  in  the  coun- 
ty, and  I  was  his  only  child." 

"  Ah,  yes,  come  to  you  that  way,"  answered  Ben, 
continuing  after  a  moment.  "  There's  a  big  house  iip 
on  the  Hudson — to  Yonkers — that's  been  shet  up  and 
rented  at  odd  spells  for  a  good  while,  and  somebody 
told  me  it  belonged  to  a  Colonel  Raymond,  who  lived 
South.  Mabby'  that's  yourn  ?" 

"  It  is,"  returned  Frederic,  "  and  I  expect  now  to  go 
there  in  the  Fall." 

"  I  want  to  know.  I  shouldnf  s'pose  you  could  be 
hired  to  leave  this  place." 

"  I  couldn't  be  hired  to  stay.  There  are  too  man^ 
sad  memories  connected  with  it,"  was  Frederic's  an- 
swer, and  he  paced  the  floor  hurriedly,  while  Ben  con- 
tinned  :  Mabby  you'll  be  takin'  a  new  wife  there  ?" 

Frederic's  cheek  flushed  as  he  replied  : 

"If  I  ever  marry  again,  it  will  not  be  in  years. 
Would  you  like  to  go  to  bed,  sir?" 

Ben  took  the  hint  and  replying,  "I  don't  care  if  I 
dew,"  followed  the  negro,  who  came  at  Frederic's  call, 
up  to  his  room,  a  pleasant,  comfortable  chamber,  over- 
looking the  river  and  the  surrounding  country. 

"  Golly,  this  is  grand  1"  said  Ben,  examining  the  dif- 
ferent articles  of  furniture,  as  if  he  had  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it  before. 

The  negro,  who  was  Lyd's  husband,  made  no  reply , 
but,  hurrying  down  stairs  to  his  mother-in-law,  he  told 
her,  "  Thar  was  somethin'  mighty  queer  about  that 
man,  and  if  they  all  found  themselves  alive  in  the  morn- 
in,'  he  should  be  thankful." 

Unmindful  of  breast-pin  and  ear-rings,  Dinah  became 
again  alarmed,  and,  bidding  Joe  see  that  Victoria  Eu- 
genia was  safe,  she  gathered  up  the  forks  and  spoons, 
and  rolling  them  iu,  a  towel,  tucked  them  inside  her 


« 


138  THE   YANKEE    PEDDLER. 

straw  tick,  saying:  "I  reckon  it'll  make  him  s treat 
some  to  hist  me  and  Phil  on  to  the  floor ;"  which  was 
quite  probable,  considering  that  the  united  weight 
of  the  worthy  couple  was  somewhat  over  three  hun- 
dred ! 

The  morning  dawned  at  last,  and,  with  her  feara 
abated,  Dinah  washed  the  silver,  made  the  coffee, 
broiled  the  steak  and  fried  the  corn  meal  batter-cakes, 
which  last  were  at  first  respectfully  declined  by  Ben, 
who  admitted  that  they  "  might  be  fust-rate,  but  he 
didn't  b'lieve  they'd  set  well  on  his  stomach." 

Hetty,  who  was  waiting  upon  the  table,  quickly  di- 
vined the  reason,  and  whispered  to  him  :  "  Lord  bless 
yon,  take  some  ;  I  done  sifted  the  meal  I" 

This  argument  was  conclusive,  and  helping  himself 
to  the  light,  steaming  cakes,  Ben  thought,  "  I  may  as 
well  eat  'em,  for  'taint  no  wus,  nor  as  bad  as  them  Irish 
gals  does  to  hum,  only  I  happened  to  see  it!" 

Breakfast  being  over,  he  offered  to  settle  his  bill, 
which  he  found  was  nothing. 

"Now,  ra-ally,  Square,"  lie  said,  as  Frederic  refused 
to  take  pay,  "  I  allus  hearn  that  Kentuckians  was 
mighty  free-hearted,  but  I  didn't  'spect  you  to  give  me 
my  liviii'.  I'm  much  obleeged  to  yon,  though,  and  I 
shall  have  more  left  to  eddicate  that  little  sister  I  was 
telliu'  you  'bout.  I  mean  to  give  her  tip-top  larnin', 
and  mebby  sometime  she'll  come  here  to  teach  this 
wee  one,"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  Alice's  hair. 

The  little  girl  smiled  up  in  his  face,  and  said,  "  Come 
again  and  peddle  here,  \v;on't  you?" 

"Wouldn't  wonder  if  I  turned  up  amongst  you  some 
day,"  was  his  answer;  and  bidding  the  family  good- 
bye, he  went  out  into  Bruno's  kennel,  for  until  this 
minute  he  had  forgotten  that  the  dog  was  to  be  re- 
membered. 

"Keep  away  from  dar,"  called  out  Uncle  Phil,  while 
Bruno  growled  savagely  and  bounded  against  the  bara 
as  if  anxious  to  pounce  upon  the  intruder. 

"  I've  seen  enough  of  him,1'  thouglit  Ben,  and  shak- 


THE   YANKEE   PEDDLER. 

ing  hands  with  Uncle  Phil,  he  walked  rapidly  down 
the  avenue  and  out  into  the  highway. 

Marian,  he  knew,  was  anxious  to  hear  of  his  success, 
and  not  willing  to  keep  her  waiting  longer  than  was 
necessary,  he  determined  to  return  at  once.  Accord- 
ingly, while  the  unsuspecting  inmates  of  Redstone 
Hall  were  discussing  his  late  visit  and  singular  appear- 
ence,  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  depot,  where  he  took 
the  first  train  for  Frankfort,  and  was  soon  sailing  down 
the  Kentucky  toward  home. 


CHAPTER 

PLANS. 

MARIAN  was  sitting  by  the  window  of  hei  little  room, 
looking  out  into  the  busy  street  below,  and  thinking 
how  differently  New  York  seemed  to  her  now  from 
what  it  did  that  dreary  day  when  she  wandered  down 
Broadway,  and  wished  that  she  could  die.  She  was 
getting  accustomed  to  the  city  roar,  and  the  sounds 
which  annoyed  her  so  much  at  first  did  not  trouble 
her  as  they  once  had  done.  Still  there  was  the  same 
old  pain  at  her  heart — a  restless,  longing  desire  to 
hear  from  home,  and  know  if  what  she  feared  were 
true.  She  had  counted  the  days  of  Ben's  absence,  and 
she  knew  it  was  almost  time  for  his  return.  She  did 
not  expect  him  to-day,  however,  and  she  paid  no  at- 
tention to  the  heavy  footstep  upon  the  stairs,  neither 
did  she  hear  the  creaking  of  the  door ;  but  when  Mrs. 
Burt  exclaimed,  "  Benjamin  Franklin  !  where  did  you 
come  from  ?"  she  started,  and  in  an  instant  held  both 
his  hands  in  hers. 

Wistfully,  eagerly  she  looked  up  into  his  face,  long- 
ing, yet  dreading,  to  ask  the  important  question. 

"  Haw  you  been  there  ?"  she  managed  to  say  at 
last ;  and  Ben  replied,  "  Yes,  chicken,  I  have,  I've 
been  to  Redstun  Hall,  and  seen  the  hull  tribe  on  'em 
That  Josh  is  a  case.  Couldn't  understand  him  no  more 
than  if  he  spoke  a  furrin  tongue." 

"But  Frederic— did  you  see  him,  and  is  he — oh, 
Ben,  do  tell  me — what- you  know  I  want  to  hear  2"  and 
Marian  trembled  with  excitement. 


. 


PLANS. 

"  Wall,  I  will,"  answered  Ben,  dropping  into  a  chair, 
and  coming  to  the  point  at  once.  "Frederic  ain't 
married  to  Isabel,  nor  ain't  a-goin'  to  be.  either." 

"  What  made  him  write  me  that  lie  ?"  was  Marian's 
next  question,  asked  so  mournfully  that  Ben  replied : 

"  A  body'd  s'pose  you  was  sorry  it  warn't  the  truth 
he  writ." 

"  I  am  glad  it  is  not  true,"  returned  Marian,  "  but  it 
hurts  me  so  to  lose  confidence  in  one  I  love.  How 
does  Frederic  look?" 

"  White  as  a  sheet  and  poor  as  a  crow,"  said  Ben. 
"It's  a  wearin'  on  him,  depend  on't.  But  she — I  tell 
you  she's  a  dasher,  with  the  blackest  eyes  and  hair  I 
ever  seen." 

"  Who  ?"  fairly  screamed  Marian.  "  Who  ?  Not 
Isabel  ?  Oh,  Ben,  is  Isabel  there  ?"  And  Marian  grew 
as  white  as  Ben  had  described  Frederic  to  be. 

"  Yes  she  is,"  returned  Ben.  "  She's  pretendin'  to 
teach  that  blind  gal,  but  Frederic  ain't  makin'  love  to 
her — no  such  thing.  So  don't  go  to  faintin'  a\vay,  and 
I'll  begin  at  the  beginning  and  tell  you  the  hull  story." 

Thus  re-assured,  Marian  composed  herself  and  lis- 
tened, while  Ben  narrated  every  particular  of  his  re- 
cent visit  to  Redstone  Hall. 

"  I  stopped  at  some  of  the  houses  in  the  neighbor- 
hood," said  he,  "  but  I  never  as't  a  question  about  the 
Ilavmonds,  for  fear  of  bein'  mistrusted.  Come  to 
think  on't,  though,  I  did  inquire  the  road,  and  they 
sent  me  through  corn  fields,  and  hemp  fields,  and 
mercy  knows  what ;  such  a  way  as  they  have  livin'  in 
the  lots?  But  I  kinder  like  it.  Seems  like  a  story, 
them  big  housen  way  off  among  the  trees,  with  the 
whitewashed  cabins  round  'em  lookin'  for  all  the  world 
like  a  camp-meetin'  in  the  woods " 

"Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Marian;  "but  Frederic — • 
won't  you  ever  reach  him  ?" 

"Not  till  I  tell  you  about  the  dogs,  and  that  jaw> 
breakin'  chap  they  call  Josh,  with  his  cow  hides,  big 


142  PLAN3. 

as  a  scow-boat,  I'll  bet,"  was  Ben's  answer ;  and  find- 
ing it  useless  to  hurry  him,  Marian  summoned  all  her 
patience  and  waited  while  he  waded  through  his 
introd action  to  the  blacks,  his  attempt  to  be  more  of 
a  Yankee  than  he  really  was,  his  sliver  in  his  thumb, 
and,  finally  his  addressing  Frederic  as  Square  and  in- 
quiring for  his  wife ! 

Marian  was  all  attention  now,  and  held  her  breath, 
lest  she  should  lose  a  single  word.  When  he 
came  to  Isabel,  and  described  her  glowing,  sparkling 
beauty,  she  trembled  in  every  joint,  and  felt  as  if  she 
were  turning  to  stone ;  but  when  he  spoke  of  Alice, 
and  the  sweet,  loving  words  she  had  said  of  the  lost 
one,  the  cold,  hard  feeling  passed  away,  and,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands,  she  wept  aloud.  Everything 
which  Ben  had  seen  or  heard  he  told,  omitting  not  a 
single  point,  but  lengthening  out  his  story  with  sur- 
mises and  suspicions  of  his  own. 

"  Alice  and  Dinah  both,"  said  he,  "  told  me  Fred- 
eric wouldn't  marry  till  they  knew  for  certain  you  was 
dead,  and  as  he  does  know  for  certain,  you  can  calker- 
laie  on  that  Isabel's  bein'  an  old  maid  for  all  of  him." 

"I  never  supposed  they'd  think  me  drowned  when 
I  dropped  my  glove  and  handkerchief,"  said  Marian. 
"  Did  they  inquire  at  the  depot." 

"  Yes — so  Alice  said,"  returned  Ben,  "  and  nobody 
knew  no  thin'  of  you ;  so  it  was  nateral  they  should 
think  you  drownded  :  but,  no  matter,  it  makes  it  more 
like  a  novel,  and  now  I'll  tell  you  jest  what  'tis,  wee 
one,  I  don't  mean  no  offense,  and  you  must  take  it  all 
iu  good  part.  You  are  a  great  deal  better  than  Isabel, 
I  know  ;  but,  as  fur  as  looks  and  manners  ie  concerned, 
you  can't  hold  a  candle  to  her,  and  a  body  knowin'  noth- 
ing about  either  would  naterally  say  she  was  most  be- 
fittiu'  Redstun  Hall ;  but,  tell  'em  to  wait  a  spell.  You 
hain't  got  your  growth  yet,  and  you  are  gettin'  better- 
lookin'  every  day.  That  sickness  made  a  wonderful 
change  in  you,  and  shavin'  your  hair  was  jest  the 
tUing.  It's  comin'  out  darker,  as  it  always  does,  and 


- 

ft 


PLANS.  14:3 

in  less  than  a  yenr  I'll  bet  my  hat  on  its  bein'  a  beau- 
tiful auburn.  You  must  chirk  up  and  grow  fat,  for 
I'm  goin'  to  send  you  to  school,  and  have  you  take  les- 
sons on  the  planner,  and  learn  French  and  everything, 
so  that  by  the  time  you're  twenty  you'll  be  the  best 
educated  and  han'somest  gal  in  the  city,  and  then 
when  the  right  time  comes,  if  Providence  don't  con- 
trive to  fetch  you  two  together,  Ben  Burt  will.  I  shall 
keep  my  eye  on  him,  and  if  he's  gettin'  too  thick  with 
Isabel,  I'll  drop  a  sly  hint  in  his  ear.  They're  goin' 
to  move  up  0,11  to  the  Hudson  to  the  old  place — did  I 
tell  you  ? — and  mebby  you'll  run  afoul  of  him  in  the 
street  some  day." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not — at  least,  not  yet — not  till  the  time 
you  speak  of,"  said  Marian,  who  had  listened  eagerly 
to  Ben's  suggestion,  and  already  felt  that,  there  was 
hope  for  her  in  the  future.  She  would  study  so  hard, 
she  thought,  and  learn  so  fast,  and  ,if  she'  only  could 
be  thought  handsome,  or  even  decent-looking,  she 
would  be  satisfied,  but  that  was  impossible,  she  feared. 

She  did  not  know  that,  as  Ben  had  said,  the. severe 
illness  through  which  she  had  passed  had  laid  the 
foundation  for  a  softer,  more  refined  style  of  beauty 
than  she  would  otherwise  have  reached.  Her  entire 
constitution  seemed  to  have  undergone  a  change,  and 
now,  with  hope  to  buoy  her  up,  she  grew  stronger, 
healthier,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  handsomer 
each  day.  She  could  not  erase  from  her  memory  the 
insult  Frederic  had  offered  her,  by  writing  what  she 
believed  he  did,  but  her  affection  for  him  was  strong 
enough  to  overlook  even  that,  and  she  was  willing  to 
wait  and  labor  years  if  at  the  end  of  that  time  she 
could  hope  to  win  his  love. 

Whatever  Ben  undertook  he  was  sure  to  accomplish 
in  the  shortest  possible  time,  and  before  starting  upon 
another  peddling  excursion,  the  name  of  4i  MARIAN 
GKEY"  was  enrolled  among  the  list  of  pupils  who  at- 
tended Madam  Harcourt's  school.  At  first  she  was 
subject  to  many  annoyances,  for,  as  was  ouite  natural, 


144  PLANS. 

her  companions  inquired  concerning  her  standing,  and 
•when  they  learned  that  her  aunt  was  a  sewing  woman, 
and  that  the  queer,  awkward  fellow  who  came  with  her 
the  first  day  was  her  cousin  and  a  peddler,  they 
treated  her  slightingly,  and  laughed  at  her  plain  dress. 
But  Marian  did  not  care.  One  thought — one  feeling 
alone  actuated  her  ;  to  make  herself  something  of  which 
Frederic  Raymond  should  not  be  ashamed  was  her 
aim,  and  for  this  she  studied  early  and  late,  winning 
golden  laurels  in  the  opinion  of  her  teachers,  and  com- 
ing ere  long  to  be  respected  and  loved,  by  her  com- 
panions, who  little  suspected  that  she  was  the  heiress 
of  untold  wealth. 

Thus  the  Summer  and  a  part  of  the  Autumn  passed 
away,  and  when  the  semi-annual  examination  came, 
Marian  Grey  stood  first  in  all  her  classes,  acquitting 
herself  so  creditably  and  receiving  so  much  praise, 
that  Ben,  who  chanced  to  be  present,  was  perfectly 
overjoyed,  and  evinced  his  pleasure  by  shedding  tears, 
his  usual  way  of  expressing  feeling. 

From  this  time  forward  Marian's  progress  was  rapid, 
until  even  she  herself  wondered  how  it  were  possible 
for  her  to  learn  so  fast  when  she  had  formerly  cared  so 
little  for  books.  Hope,  and  a  joyful  anticipation  of 
what  would  possibly  be  hers  in  the  future,  kept  her  up 
and  helped  her  to  endure  the  mental  labors  which 
might  otherwise  have  overtaxed  her  strength.  Grad- 
ually, too,  the  old  soreness  at  her  heart  wore  away, 
and  she  recovered  in  a  measure  her  former  light-heart- 
edness,  until  at  last  her  merry  laugh  was  often  heard 
ringing  out  loud  and  clear  just  as  it  used  to  do  at  home 
in  days  gone  by.  Very  anxiously  Ben  watched  her, 
and  when  on  his  return  from  his  excursions  he  found 
her,  as  he  always  did,  improved  in  looks  and  spirits, 
he  rubbed  his  hands  together  and  whispered  to  him- 
self, "  She'll  set  up  for  a  beauty,  yet,  and  no  mistake. 
That  hair  of  hern  is  growin'  a  splendid  color." 

He  did  not  always  express  these  thoughts  to  Marian, 
but  the  little  mirror  which  hung  on  the  wall  in  her 


PLANS.  145 

room  sometimes  whispered  to  her  that  the  face  reflec- 
ted there  was  not  the  same  which  had  looked  at,  her  Su 
mournfully  on  that  memorable  night  when  she  had  left 
her  pillow  to  see  what  her  points  of  ugliness  were  I 
The  one  which  she  had  thought  the  crowning  defect  of 
all  had  certainly  disappeared.  Her  red  curls  were 
gone,  and  in  their  places  was  growing  a  mass  of  soft 
wavy  hair,  which  reminded  her  of  the  auburn  tress  she 
had  so  much  admired  and  prized,  because  it  was  her 
mother's.  She  had  no  means  of  knowing  how  nearly 
they  were  alike,  for  the  ringlet  was  far  away,  but  by 
comparing  her  present  short  curls  with  those  which 
had  been  shorn  from  her  head,  she  saw  there  was  a 
difference,  and  she  felt  a  pardonable  pride  in  brushing 
and  cultivating  her  young  hair,  which  well  repaid  her 
labor,  growing  very  rapidly  and  "curling  anout  her 
forehead  in  small,  round  rings,  which  were  far  from 
unbecoming. 

Toward  the  last  of  November,  Ben,  who  found  hia 
peddling  profitable,  took  a  trip  through  Western  New 
York,  and  did  not  return  until  February,  when,  some- 
what to  his  mother's  annoyance,  he  brought  a  sick 
stranger  with  him.  He  had  taken  the  cars  at  Albany, 
where  he  met  with  the  stranger,  who  offered  him  a 
part  of  his  seat  and  made  himself  so  generally  agree- 
able that  Ben's  susceptible  heart  warmed  toward  him 
at  once,  and  when  at  last,  as  they  drew  near  New 
York,  the  man  showed  signs  of  being  seriously  ill, 
Ben's  sympathy  was  roused,  and  learning  that  he  had 
no  friends  in  the  city,  he  urged  him  so  strongly  to  ac- 
company him  home  for  the  night,  at  least,  that  his  in- 
vition  was  accepted,  and  the  more  readily,  perhaps,  as 
the  stranger's  pocket  had  been  picked  in  Albany,  and 
he  had  nothing  left  except  his  ticket  to  New  York. 
This  reason  was  not  very  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Burt,  who 
from  the  tirst  had  disliked  their  visitor's  appearance. 
He  was  a  powerfully  built  young  man,  with  black 
bushy  hair,  and  restless,  rolling  eyes,  which  seemed 
ever  on  the  alert  to  discover  something  not  intended 

7 


14:6  PLANS. 

for  them  to  see.  His  face  wore  a  hard,  dissipated 
look ;  and  when  Mrs.  Burt  saw  how  soon  after  seating 
himself  before  the  warm  fie,  he  fell  asleep,  she  rightly 
conjectured  that  a  fit  of  drunkenness  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  illness.  Still,  he  was  their  guest,  and  she 
would  not  treat  him  uncivilly,  so  she  bade  her  son  to 
take  him  to  his  room,  where  he  lay  in  the  same  deep, 
stupid  sleep,  breathing  so  loudly  that  he  could-  be 
plainly  heard  in  the  adjoining  room,  where  Marian  and 
Ben  were  talking  of  the  house  at  Yonkers  which  was 
not  finished  yet,  and  would  not  be  ready  for  the  family 
until  sometime  in  May. 

Suddenly  the  loud  breathing  in  the  bed-room  ceased 
— the  stranger  was  waking  up ;  but  Ben  and  Marian 
paid  no  heed,  and  talked  on  as  freely  as  if  there  were 
no  greedy  ears  drinking  in  each  word  they  said — no 
wild-eyed  man  leaning  on  his  elbow  and  putting  to- 
•gether,  link  by  link,  the  chain  of  mystery  until  it  was 
as  clear  to  him  as  noonday.  The  fii^t  sentence  which 
he  heard  distinctly  sobered  him  at  once.  It  was  Marian 
who  spoke,  and  the  words  she  said  were,  "  I  wonder 
if  Isabel  Huutington  will  come  with  Frederic  to 
Yonkers."  « 

" Isabel!"  the  stranger  gasped.  "  What  do  they 
know  of  her  ?"  and  sitting  up  in  bed,  he  listened  until 
he  learned  what  they  knew  of  her,  and  learned,  too, 
that  the  young  girl  whom  Ben  Burt  called  his  cousin 
was  the  runaway  bride  from  Redstone  Hall. 

Fiercely  the  black  eyes  flashed  through  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  fists  smote  angrily  together  as  the 
stranger  hoarsely  whispered : 

"  The  time  I've  waited  for  has  come  at  last,  and  the 
proud  lady  shall  be  humbled  in  the  very  dust  I" 

It  was  Rudolph  McYicar  who  thus  threatened  evil 
to  Isabel  Huntingtou.  He  had  loved  her  once,  but 
her  scornful  refusal  of  him,  even  after  she  was  his 
promised  wife,  had  turned  his  love  to  hate,  and  he  had 
sworn  to  avenge  the  wrong  should  a  good  chance  ever 
occur.  He  knew  that  she  was  in  Kentucky — a  teacher 


PLANS.  147 

at  Redstone  Hall — and  for  a  time  he  had  expected  to 
hear  of  her  marriage  with  the  heir,  but  this  intelligence 
did  not  come,  and  weary  of  New  Haven,  he  at  last 
made  a  trip  to  New  Orleans,  determining  on  his  way 
back  to  stop  for  a  time  in  the  neighborhood  of  Red- 
stone Hall,  and  if  possible  learn  the  reason  why  Isabel 
had'not  yet  succeeded  in  securing  Frederic  Raymond. 
On  the  boat  in  which  he  took  passage  on  his  return 
were  three  or  tour  young  people  from  Franklin  county, 
and  among  them  Anges  Gibson  and  her  brother. 
They  were  a  very  merry  party,  and  at  once  attracted 
the  attention  of  Rudolph,  who,  learning  that  they  were 
from  the  vicinity  of  Frankfort,  hovered  around  them, 
hoping  that  by  some  chance  he  might  hear  them  speak 
of  Isabel.  Nor  was  he  disappointed  ;  for  one  after- 
noon when  they  were  assembled  upon  the  upper  deck, 
one  of  their  number  who  lived  in  Lexington,  and  who 
had  been  absent  in  California  for  nearly  two  .years,  in- 
quired after  Frederic  Raymond,  whom  he  had  formerly 
known  at  school. 

"Why,"  returned  the  loquacious  Agnes,  "did  no 
one  write  that  news  to  you?"  and  oblivious  entirely 
of  Rudolph  McYicar,  who  at  a  little  distance  was  lis- 
tening attentively,  she  told  the  story  of  Frederic's 
strange  marriage  and  its  sad  denouement.  Isabel,  too, 
was  freely  discussed,  Miss  Agnes  saying  that  Mr. 
Raymond  would  undoubtedly  marry  her,  could  he 
know  that  Marian  was  dead,  but  as  there  were  some 
who  entertained  doubts  upon  that  point  he  would 
hardly  dare  take  any  decisive  step  until  uncertainty 
was  made  sure. 

"  When  Miss  Huntington  first  came  to  Redstone 
Hall."  continued  Agnes,  "  she  took  no  pains  whatever 
to  conceal  her  preference  for  Mr.  Raymond;  but  lat- 
terly a  change  has  come  over  her,  and  she  hardly 
appear*  like  the  same  girl.  There  seems  Jto  be  some- 
thing on  her  mind,  though  what  it  is  I  have  never  been 
able  to  learn,  which  is  a  little  strange,  considering  that 
she  tells  me  everything." 


148  PLANS. 

Not  a  word  of  all  this  story  was  lost  by  Me  Vicar. 
There  was  no*  reason  now  for  his  leaving  the  boat  at 
Louisville.  He  knew  why  Isabel  was  not  a  bride,  and 
secretly  exulting  as  he  thought  of  her  weary  restless- 
ness, he  kept  on  his  way  till  he  reached  Albany,  where 
a  debauch  of  a  few  days  was  succeeded  by  the  sickness 
which  had  awakened  the  sympathy  of  the  tender-heart- 
ed Ben,  and  induced  the  latter  to  offer  him  shelter  for 
the  night.  He  was  glad  of  it,  no^v  —glad  that  he  had 
met  with  Ben,  for  by  that  means  he  had  discovered  the 
hiding-place  of  Frederic  Raymond's  wife.  He  did  not 
know  of  her  fortune,  but  he  knew  that  she  was  Marian 
Liudsey ;  that  accidentally,  as  he  supposed,  she  had 
stumbled  upon  Mrs.  Burt  and  Ben,  who  were  keeping 
her  secret  from  the  world,  and  that  was  enough  for 
him.  That  Isabel  had  something  to  do  with  her  he 
was  sure,  aiid  long  after  the  conversation  in  the  next 
room  had  ceased,  he  lay  awake  thinking  what  use  he 
should  make  of  his  knowledge,  and  still  not  betray 
those  who  had  befriended  him. 

Rudolph  Me  Vicar  was  an  adept  in  cunning,  and 
before  the  morning  dawned  he  had  formed  a  plan  by 
which  he  hoped  to  crush  the  haughty  Isabel.  Assum- 
ing an  air  of  indifference  to  everything  around  him, 
he  sauntered  out  to  breakfast,  and  pretended  to  eat, 
while  his  eyes  rested  almost  constantly  on  Marian. 
She  was  very  young,  he  thought,  and  far  prettier  than 
Agnes  Gibson  had  represented  her  to  be.  She  was 
changing  in  her  looks,  he  said,  andtivo  or  three  years 
would  ripen  her  into  a  beautif  1  -vMnan  of  whom 
Frederic  Raymond  would  be  proud.  Much  he  wished 
he  knew  why  she  had  left  Redstone  Hall,  but  as  this 
knowledge  was  beyond  his  reach,  he  contented  him- 
self with  knowing  who  she  was,  and  after  breakfast 
was  over,  he  thanked  his  new  acquaintances  for  their 
hospitality,  and  went  out  into  the  city,  going  first  to  a 
pawnbroker's,  where  he  left  his  watch,  receiving  in 
exchange  money  enough  to  defray  his  expenses  in  the 
city  for  several  days. 


PLANS.  149 

That  night,  in  a  private  room  at  the  St.  Nicholas,  he 
eat  alone,  bending  over  a  letter,  which,  when  finished, 
bore  a  very  fair  resemblance  to  an  uneducated  woman's 
handwriting,  and  which  read  as  follows : 

M.  RAYMOND — I  now  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  inform 
you  that  A  young  Woman,  calling  herself  Marian 
lindsey  has  ben  staying  with  me  awhile  And  she  said 
you  was  her  Husband  what  she  came  of  and  left  you 
for  I  don't  know  and  I  spose  its  none  of  my  Biznes  all 
I  have  to  do  is  to  tell  you  that  she  died  wun  week  ago 
come  sunday  with  the  carikerrash  and  she  made  me 
Promise  to  rite  and  tell  you  she  was  ded  and  that  she 
forgives  you  all  your  Sins  and  hope  you  wouldn't  wate 
long  before  you  marred  agen  it  would  of  done  your 
Hart  good  to  hear  her  taulk  like  a  Sante  as  she  did. 
I  should  of  writ  soonner  only  her  sicknes  hindered  me 
about  <iettin  reddy  for  a  journey  ime  goin  to  take  my. 
only  Brother  lives  in  Scotland  and  ime  goin  out  to  live 
with  him  i  was  most  reddy  when  Marian  took  sick  if 
she  had  lived  she  wss  coining  back  to  you  I  bleave 
and  now  'that  slies  ded  ime  going  rite  of  in  the  — — 
which  sales  tomorrough  nite  else  ide  ask  you  to  come 
down  and  see  where  she  died  and  all  about  it.  i  made 
her  as  coiufitable  as  I  could  and  hopin  you  wouldnt 
take  it  to  hard  for  Deth  is  the  Lot  of  all  i  am  3'onr 
most  Humble  Servant  SARAH  GREEN. 

"  There,"  soliloquized  Rudolph,  reading  over  the 
letter.  "  That  covers  the  whole  ground,  and  still  gives 
him  no  clue  in  case  he  should  come  to  New  York. 

The  does  sail  the  very  day  I  have  named,  and 

though  '  Sarah  Green '  may  not  be  among  her  pas- 
sengers, it  answers  my  purpose  quite  as  well.  I  be- 
lieve I've  steered  clear  of  all  doubtful  points  which 
might  lead  him  to  suspect  it  a  forgery.  He  knows 
Marian  would  not  attempt  to  deceive  him  thus,  and  he 
will,  undoubtedly,  think  old  Mrs.  Green  some  good 
Boul,  who  dosed  the  patient  with  saffron  tea.  and  then 


150  PLA.NS. 

saw  her  decently  interred  1  He'll  have  a  nice  time 
hunting  up  her  grave  if  he  should  undertake  that.  But 
he  won't — he'll  be  pleased  enough  to  know  that  he  is 
free,  for  by  all  accounts  he  didn't  love  her  much,  and 
in  less  than  six  weeks  he'll  be  engaged  to  Isabel.  But 
I'll  be  on  their  track.  I'll  watch  them  narrowly,  and 
when  the  day  is  set,  and  the  guests  are  there,  one  will 
go  unbidden  to  the  marriage  feast,  and  the  story  that 
uninvited  guest  can  tell  will  humble  the  proud  beauty 
to  the  dust.  He  will  tell  her  that  this  letter  was  a 
forgery,  and  Sarah  Green  a  myth :  ihst  Marian  Lind- 
sey  lives,  and  Frederic  Raymond,  if  .he  takes  another 
wife,  can  be  indicted  for  bigamy  ;  and  when  he  sees 
her  eyes  flash  fire,  and  her  cheek  grow  pale  with 
rage  and  disappointment,  Rudolph  McVicar  will  be 
avenged." 

This,  then,  was  the  plan  which  Rudolph  had  formed, 
and,  without  wavering  for  an  instant  in  his  purpose, 
he  soaled  the  letter,  and  directing  it  to  Frederic,  sent 
it  on  its  way,  going  himself  the  next  morning  to  New 
Haven,  where  he  had  some  money  deposited  in  the 
bank.  This  he  withdrew,  and  after  a  few  days  started 
for  Lexington,  where  lie  intended  to  remain  and  watch 
the  proceedings  at  Redstone  Hall,  until  the  denoue- 
ment of  his  plot. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

THE       EFFECT. 

KOT  quite  one  year  has  passed  away  since  the  warm 
Spring  night  when  Ben  Burt  first  strolled  leisurely  up 
the  long  avenue  leading  to  Redstone  Hall.  It  was 
April,  then,  and  the  early  flowers  were  in  bloom,  but 
now  the  chill  March  winds  are  blowing,  and  the  brown 
stocks  of  the  tall  rose-tree  brush  against  the  window, 
from  which  a  single  light  streams  out  into  the  dark- 
ness. It  is  the  window  of  the  little  library  where  we 
have  seen  Frederic  before,  and  where  we  meet  him 
once  again.  He  has  changed  somewhat  since  we  saw 
him  last,  and  there  is  upon  his  face  a  sad,  thoughtful 
expression,  as  if  far  down  in  his  heart  there  were 
a  haunting  memory  which  would  follow  him  through 
all  time,  and  embitter  every  hour. 

Little  by  little,  step  by  step,  he  had  come  to  hate 
the  wealth  which  had  tempted  him  to  sin— to  loathe 
the  beautiful  home  he  once  loved  so  well — and  this 
had  prompted  him  to  leave  it  and  go  back  to  the  old 
house  on  the  river,  where  his  early  boyhood  was 
passed.  There  were  not  so  many  mournful  memories 
clustering  around  that  spot,  he  thought,  and  if  he  once 
were  there,  he  might  perhaps  forget  the  past,  and  be 
happy  again.  He  would  open  an  office  in  the  city,  and 
if  possible  earn  his  own  living,  so  as  not  to  spend  more 
of  Marian's  fortune  than  was  necessary.  He  could  not 
tell  why  he  wished  to  save  it.  He  only  knew  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  use  it,  and  he  roused  himself  at  last, 
determining  to  -do  something  for  himself.  This  plan 


152  THE    EFFECT. 

•> 

of  moving  to  the  Hudson  was  opposed  by  Isabel,  who 
liked  the  easy,  luxurious  life  she  led  at  Redstone  PLall ; 
but,  for  once,  Frederic  would  not  listen  to  her,  and  lie 
had  made  his  arrangements  to  leave  Kentucky  in  May, 
at  which  time  his  house  would  be  in  readiness  to  re- 
ceive him.  Isabel  would  go  with  him,  of  course — she 
was  necessary  to  him  now,  though,  faithful  to  the  pro- 
mise made  to  little  Alice,  he  hud  never  talked  to  her 
of  love.  And  she  was  glad  that  he  had  not ;  for,  with 
the  knowledge  she  possessed,  she  would  not  have  dared 
to  listen  to  his  suit,  and  she  often  questioned  herself 
as  to  what  the  end  would  be. 

One  year  or  more  of  the  dreary  seven  was  gone,  but 
the  future  looked  almost  hopeless  to  her,  and  she  was 
sometimes  tempted  to  go  away  and  leave  the  danger- 
ous game  at  which  she  was  so  hazardously  playing. 
Still,  when  she  seriously  contemplated  such  a  proceed- 
ing, she  shrunk  from  it — for,  even  though  she  were 
never  Frederic's  wife,  she  would  rather  remain  where 
she  was,  and  see  that  no  other  came  to  dispute  the  lit- 
tle claim  she  had.  All  her  assurance  was  gone,  and 
in  her  dread  lest  Frederic  should  say  the  words  she 
must  not  hear,  she  assumed  toward  him  a  half  distant, 
half  bashful  manner,  far  more  attractive  than  a  bolder 
course  of  conduct  would  have  been,  and  Frederic, 
while  watching  her  in  this  new  phase  of  character, 
struggled  manfully  against  the  feeling  \vhich  some- 
times prompted  him  to  break  his  promise  to  the  blind 
girl.  She  was  faulty,  he  knew — far  more  so  than  he 
had  once  imagined — but  she  was  brilliant,  beautiful, 
accomplished,  and  he  thought  that  he  loved  her. 

But  not  of  her  was  he  thinking  that  chill  March 
night  when  he  sat  alone  in  the  library  watching  the 
flickering  of  the  lamp,  and  listening  to  the  evening 
wind,  as  it  shook  the  bushes  beneath  his  window.  It 
was  Marian's  seventeenth  birth-day,  and  he  was  think- 
ing of  her,  wondering  what  she  would  have  been  had 
she  lived  to  see  this  day.  She  was  surely  dead, 
he  thought,  or  some  tidings  of  her  would  have  come  to 


THE   EFFECT.  153 

him  ere  this,  and  when  he  remembered  how  gentle, 
how  pure  and  self-denying  her  short  life  had  been,  he 
said  involuntarily,  "Poor  Marian — she  deserved  a  bet- 
ter fate,  and  should  she  come  back  to  me  again  I  would 
prove  to  her  that  I  am  not  all  unworthy  of  her  love." 

There  was  a  shuffling  tread  in  the  hall,  and  Josh 
appeared  bringing  several  letters.  One  bore  the 
Louisville  post-mark — one  was  from  New  Orleans — 
one  from  Lexington,  and  one  from  Sarah  Green ! 

l'  "Who  writes  to  me  from  New  York  ?"  was  Ferd- 
eric's  mental  query,  and  tearing  open  the  wrapper  he 
drew  nearer  to  him  the  lamp  and  read,  while  there 
crept  over  him  a  nameless  terror  as  if  even  while  he 
was  thinking  of  the  lost,  the  grave  had  opened  at  his 
feet  and  shown  him  where  she  lay;  not  in  the  moan- 
ing river — not  in  the  deep,  dark  woods,  nor  on  the 
western  prairies,  as  he  had  sometimes  feared,  but  far 
away  in  the  great  city,  where  there  was  no  one  to  pity 
— no  eye  to  weep  for  her  save  that  of  the  rude  woman 
who  had  written  him  the  letter. 

There  Marian  had  suffered  ahd  died  for  him.  His 
Marian— his  young  girl- wife !  He  could  call  her  so 
now,  and  he  did,  saying  it  softly,  reverently,  as  we 
epeak  always  of  the  departed,  while  the  tears  he  was 
not  ashamed  to  weep,  dropped  upon  the  soiled  sheet. 
He  did  not  think  of  doubting  it.  There  was  no  reason 
why  he  should,  and  his  heart  went  out  after  the  dead 
as  it  had  never  gone  after  the  living.  It  seemed  to 
him  so  terrible  that  she  should  die  among  strangers,  so 
far  from  home ;  and  he  wondered  much  how  she  ever 
chanced  to  get  there.  IShe  had  remembered  him  to 
the  last,  "  forgiving  all  his  sins,"  the  woman  said,  and 
knowing  how  much  those  few  words  meant,  he  said 
tgain,  "Poor  Marian,"  just  as  the  door  opened  and 
Alice  came  slowly  in. 

There  was  a  grand  party  that  night  at  the  house  of 
Lawyer  Gibson,  and  at  Isabel's  request  Alice  had  come 
to  ask  how  -ong  before  the  carriage  would  be  ready. 
Dinah  had  told  her  that  Frederic  was  in  the  library. 


15-i  THE    EFFECT. 

bat  he  sat  so  still  she  thought  he  was  not  there,  and  she 
said  inquiringly,  "  Frederic ?" 

"  Yes,  darling,"  was  his  answer  in  a  tone  which 
startled  the  sensitive  child,  for  she  detected  in  it  a 
sound  of  tears,  and  hurrying  to  his  side  she  passed  her 
hand  over  his  face  to  zissure  herself  that  she  heard 
aright. 

"  Has  something  dreadful  happened  ?"  she  asked,  as 
she  felt  the  moisture  on  his  eye-lids. 

Taking  her  on  his  lap,  and  laying  his  hurning  cheek 
against  her  cool  forehead,  Frederic  said  to  her  very 
tenderly  and  low  : 

"  Alice,  poor  Marian  is  dead  !  Here  is  the  letter 
which  came  to  tell  us,"  and  he  placed  it  in  her  hand. 
There  was  a  sudden  upward  flashing  of  the  brown 
eyes,  and  then  their  soft  light  was  quenched  in  tears, 
as,  burying  her  face  in  the  young  man's  bosom,  the 
blind  girl  sobbed,  "  Oh,  no,  no,  Frederic,  no." 

For  several  minutes  she  wept  passionately,  while  her 
little  frame  shook  with  strong  emotion.  Then  lifting 
up  her  head  and  reaching  toward  the  spot  where  she 
knew  the  letter  lay,  she  said  : 

<;  Read  it  to  me,  Frederic,"  and  he  did  read,  pausing 
occasionally  as  )ie  was  interrupted  by  her  low  moan- 
ing cry. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  she  asked,  when  he  had  finished. 
"  Didn't  you  leave  out  a  word  ?" 

"  Not  one,"  was  his  reply,  and  with  quivering  lips 
the  heart-broken  child  continued,  "  Marian  sent  no 
message  for  poor  blind  Alice  to  remember — she  never 
thought  of  me  who  loved  her  so  much.  Why  didn't 
she,  Frederic  ?"  and  the  sightless  eyes  looked  beseech- 
ingly at  him  as  if  he  could  explain  the  mystery. 

.Poor  child!  Rudolph  Me  Vicar  did  not  know  how 
strong  was  the  affection  between  those  two  young 
girls,  or  he  would  surely  have  sent  a  message  to  one 
who  seemed  almost  a  part  of  Marian  herself,  and  it 
was  this  very  omission  which  finally  led  the  close  rea- 
soning child  to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  letter.  But  she 


THE  EFFECT.  1-55 

tlid  not  doubt  it  now.  Marian  was  really  dead  to  her, 
ahd  for  a  longtime  she  sat  with  Frederic,  saying  noth- 
ing, but  by  her  silence  manifesting  to  him  how  great 
was  her  grief  at  this  sudden  bereavement. 

At  last  remembering  her  errand,  she  told  him  why 
she  had  come,  and  asked  what  she  should  say  to 
Isabel. 

"  Tell  her  I  shall  not  go,"  he  said,  "  but  she  need 
not  remain  at  home  for  that.  The  carriage  can  be 
ready  at  any  time,  and  Alice  will  tell  her  the  rest  ? 
You'll  do  it  better  than  I." 

Alice  would  rather  that  some  one  else  should  carry 
to  Isabel  tidings  which  she  felt  intuitively  would  be 
received  with  more  pleasure  than  pain,  but  if  Frederic 
requested  it  of  her  she  would  do  it,  and  she  started  to 
return.  To  her  the  night  and  the  day  were  the  same, 
and  ordinarily  it  mattered  not  whether  there  were 
lamps  in  the  hall  or  not,  but  now,  as  she  passed  from 
the  library  into  the  adjoining  room,  there  came  over 
her  a  feeling  of  such  utter  loneliness  and  desolation 
that  she  turned  back  and  said  to  Frederic  : 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  up  the  stairs,  for  now  that 
Marian  is  dead,  the  night  is  darker  than  it  ever  was 
before." 

He  appreciated  her  feelings,  and  taking  her  by  the 
hand,  led  her  to  the-  door  of  Isabel's  room.  Very  im- 
patiently Isabel  had  waited  for  her,  wishing  to  know 
what  hour  Frederic  intended  starting,  and  if  there 
would  be  time  for  Luce,  her  waiting  maid,  to  curl  her 
long,  black  hair.  Accidentally  she  had  overheard  a 
gentleman  say  that  if  she  wore  curls  she  would  be  the 
most  beautiful  woman  kn  Kentucky,  and  as  he  was  to 
be  present  at  the  party  she  determined  to  prove  his 
assertion. 

"  I  hope  that  young  one  stays  well,"  she  said,  angrily, 
as  the  moments  went  by,  and  at  last,  as  Alice  did  not 
come,  she  bade  Luce  put  the  iron  in  the  fire,  and  com- 
mence her  operations. 

The  negress  accordingly  obeyed  the  orders,  and  six 


156  THE   EFFECT. 

long  curls  were  streaming  down  the  lady's  back,  while 
a  seventh  was  wound  around  the  hissing  iron  in  close 
proximity  to  her  ear,  when  Alice  came  in,  and  hurry- 
ing up  to  her  side,  began  : 

"  Oh,  Miss  Huntington,  poor,  dear  Marian  wasn't 
dead  all  the  time  they  thought  she  was.  She  was  in 
New  York,  with  Mrs. " 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence  ;  for,  feeling  certain 
that  her  treachery  was  about  to  be  disclosed,  the  guilty 
Isabel  jumped  so  suddenly  as  to  bring  the  hot  iron 
directly  across  her  ear  and  a  portion  of  her  forehead. 
Maddened  with  the  pain,  and  a  dread  of  impending 
disgrace,  she  struck  the  innocent  girl  a  blow  which 
Bent  her  reeling  across  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  Lordy  !"  exclaimed  Luce,  untwisting  the  hair 
so  rapidly  that  a  portion  of  it  was  torn  from  the  head 
— "  oh,  Lordy  !  Miss  Isabel,  Alice  never  tached  you  ;" 
and,  throwing  the  iron  upon  the  hearth,  she  hurried  to 
the  prostrate  child,  who  had  thrown  herself  upon  the 
lounge  and  was  sobbing  so  loud  and  hysterically  that 
Isabel  herself  was  alarmed,  and  while  bathing  her 
blistered  ear,  tried  to  stammer  out  some  apology  for 
what  she  had  done. 

"I  supposed  you  carelessly  ran  against  me,"  she 
said  ;  "and  it  hurt  me  so  I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
doing.  Pray,  don't  cry  that  way.  You'll  raise  the 
house  ;"  and  she  took  hold  of  Alice's  shoulder. 

"  I  wish  she  would,"  muttered  Luce;  and,  stooping 
down,  she  whispered :  "  Screech  Lmder,  so  as  to  totch 
Marster  Frederic,  and  tell  him  jest  how  she  done 
sarved  you !" 

But  nothing  could  be  further  from  Alice's  mind  than 
crying  for  effect.  It  was  not  so  much  the  indignity 
she  had  suffered,  nor  yet  the  pain  of  the  blow  which 
made  her  weep  so  bitterly.  It  was  rather  the  utter 
sense  of  desolation,  the  feeling  that  her  last  hope  had 
drifted  away  with  the  certainty  of  Marian's  death,  and 
for  a  time  she  wept  on  passionately  ;  while  Isabel,  with 
&  hurricane  in  her  bosom,  walked  the  floor,  wondering 


THE   EFFECT.  157 

if  her  perfidy  would  ever  be  discovered,  and  feeling 
that  she  cared  but  little  now  whether  it  were,  or  not. 
Suspense  was  terrible,  and  wheh  the  violence  of  Alice's 
sobs  had  subsided,  she  said  to  her  : 

"  Where  is  Marian,  and  when  is  she  coming  home?" 

"Oh,  never,  never!"  answered  the  child.  "She 
can't  come  back,  for  she's  dead  now,  Marian  is ;"  and 
Alice  covered  her  face  again  with  her  hands. 

"  Dead  !"  exclaimed  Isabel,  in  a  far  different  voice 
from  that  in  which  she  had  spoken  before.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ?"  and  passing  her  arm  very  caressingly 
around  the  little  figure  lying  on  the  lounge,  she  con- 
tinued :  "  I  am  sorry  I  struck  you,  Alice.  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  doing,  and  you  must  forgive  me,  will 
you,  darling?  There,  dry  your  eyes,  and  tell  me  all 
about  poor  Marian.  When  did  she  die,  and  where?" 

As  well  as  she  could  for  her  tears,  Alice  told  what 
she  knew,  and  satisfied  that  she  was  in  no  way  impli- 
cated, Isabel  became  still  more  amiable,  even  speaking 
pleasantly  to  Luce  and  telling  her  she  might  do  what 
she  pleased  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 

"  Of  course  I  shouldn't  think  of  attending  the  party 
now,  even  if  I  were  not  so  dreadfully  burned.  Poor 
Frederic  !  how  ba  ily  he  must  feel !" 

"  lie  does,"  said  Alice,  "  and  he  cried,  too." 

Isabel  curled  her  proud  lip  contemptuously,  and  dip- 
ping her  handkerchief  again  in  the  water,  she  applied 
it  to  her  blistered  ear,  thinking  to  herself  that  he 
would  probably  be  easily  consoled.  It  would  be  pro- 
per, too,  for  lur  to  commence  the  consoling  process  at 
once,  by  expressing  her  sympathy  ;  and  leaving  Alice 
aloae  she  went  to  the  library  where  Frederic  still  was 
fcitung,  so  absorbed  in  his  own  sad  reflections  that  he 
did  not  observe  her  approach  until  she  said,  "  Alice 
.tells  me  you  have  heard  from  Marian,"  then  he  started 
suddenly,  and  turning  toward  her,  answered,  "Yes, 
you  can  read  what  is  written  here  if  you  like,"  and  he 
passed  her  Me  Vicar's  letter. 

It  did  seem  to  Isabel  that  there  was  something  fa- 


158  THE   EFFECT. 

miliar  about  the  writing,  particularly  in  tlie  formation 
of  the  capitals,  but  she  suspected  no  fraud,  and  accepted 
the  whole  as  coming  from  Sarah  Green. 

"This  is  some  new  acquaintance  Marian  picked 
up,"  she  thought.  "The  woman  speaks  of  having 
known  her  but  a  short  time.  Probably  she  left  Mrs. 
Daniel  Burt  and  stumbled  upon  Sarah  Green,''  and 
with  an  exultant  smile  upon  her  beautiful  face,  she  put 
the  letter  down,  and  laying  her  hand  very  lightly  on 
Frederic's  shoulder,  said,  "  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Fred- 
eric, though  it  is  better,  of  course,  to  know  just  what 
did  become  of  the  poor  girl." 

Frederic  could  not  tell  why  it  was  that  Isabel's 
words  of  sympathy  grated  harshly  on  his  ear.  He  only 
knew  that  they  did,  and  he  was  glad  when  she  left  him 
alone,  telling  him  she  should  not,  of  course,  attend  the 
party,  and  saying  in  reply  to  his  question  as  to  what 
ailed  her  ear,  that  Luce,  who  was  curling  her  hair, 
carelessly  burned  it. 

';  By  the  way,"  she  continued,  "  when  I  felt  the  hot 
iron,  I  jumped  and  throwing  out  my  hand  accidentally 
hit  Alice  on  her  head,  and,  if  you'll  believe  me,  the 
sensitive  child  thinks  I  intended  it,  and  has  almost 
cried  herself  sick." 

This  falsehood  she  deemed  necessary,  in  case  the 
truth  of  the  matter  should  ever  reach  Frederic  through 
another  channel,  and  feeling  confident  that  she  was 
safe  in  every  respect,  and  that  the  prize  she  so  much 
coveted  was  nearly  won,  she  left  him.  and  sought  her 
mother's  chamber. 

In  the  kitcheru  the  news  of  Marian's  certain  death 
was  received  with  noisy  demonstrations — old  Dirah 
and  Hetty  trying  hard  to  outdo  each  other,  and  ^ee 
which  should  shed  the  most  and  the  biggest  tears. 
The  woollen  aprons  of  both  were  brought  into  constant 
requisition,  while  Hetty  rang  so  many  changes  upon 
the  virtues  of  the  departed  that  Uncle  Phil  became 
disgusted,  and  said  "  for  his  part  he'd  hearn  enough 
'bout  dead  fplks.  He  liked  Miss  Marian  as  well  an 


THE   EFFECT.  159 

anybody,  but  he  did  tip  his  mournin'  them  times  that 
he  wet  hisself  to  the  ?kin  a  tryin'  to  fish  her  out  of  the 
river.  lie  thought  bis  heart  would  bust  then,  though 
lie  knew  all  the  time  she  wasn't  thnr,  and  he  told  'em 
so,  too.  He  knew  she'd  run  away  to  JSrew  York,  and 
he  all  us  s'posed  they'd  hear  she  died  summers  at  the 
South.  He  wan't  disappointed.  He  could  tell  by  his 
feelin's  when  anything  was  gwine  to  happen,  and  for 
inore'n  a  week  back  he'd  had  it  on  his  mind  that  Miss 
Marian' was  dead — they  couldn't  fool  him!"  and  satis- 
fied that  he  had  impressed  his  audience  with  a  sense 
of  his  foreknowledge,  Uncle  Phil  pulled  off  his  boots 
and  started  for  bed,  leaving  Dinah  and  Hetty  to  dis- 
cuss the  matter  at  their  leisure  and  speculate  upon  the 
probable  result. 

"I  can  tell  you,"  said  Dinah,  "it  won't  be  no  time 
at  all  afore  Marster'll  be  settin'  to  that  Isabel,  and  if 
he  does,  I  'clar  tbr't  I'll  run  away,  or  hire  out,  see  if  I 
don't.  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  be  sassed  by  none  of  yer  low 
Hung  truck  and  hev  'em  carry  in'  the  ketys.  She  may 
jest  go  back  whar  she  come  from,  and  I'll  tell  her  so, 
too.  I'll  gin  her  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"  She  is  gwine  back,"  suggested  Hetty,  who,  faithful 
to  the  memory  of  Miss  Beatrice,  admired  Isabel  on- ac- 
count of  a  fancied  resemblance  between  the  two. 
tc  Don't  you  mind  how  Marster  is  a  gwiue  to  move  up 
to  somewhar  ?" 

"  That's  nothin',"  returned  Dinah.  "  They'll  come 
back  in  the  Fall,  but  I  shan't  be  here.  I'll  hire  my- 
self out,  and  you  kin  be  the  head  a  spell." 

This  prospect  was  not  an  unpleasant  one  to  Hetty, 
who  looked  with  a  jealous  eye  upon  Dinah's  rather 
superior  position,  and  as  a  sure  means  of  attaining  the 
object  of  her  ambition  and  becoming  in  turn  the  favor- 
ite, she  warmly  espoused,  the  cause  of  Isabel,  and 
waged  many  a  battle  of  words  with  Dinah,  who  took 
no  pains  to  conceal  her  dislike.  Thus  two  01  three 
weeks  went  by,  and  as  nothing  occurred  to  cause 
Dinah  immediate  alarm,  her  fears  gradually  subsided, 


160  THE   EFFECT. 

until  at  last  she  forgot  them  altogether,  while  even 
Marian  ceased  to  be  a  daily  subject  of  conversation. 

To  Frederic  reality  was  more  endurable  than  sus- 
pense, for  he  could  look  tlie  future  in  the  face  and 
think  what  he  would  do.  He  was  free  to  marry  Isa- 
bel, he  believed  ;  but,  as  was  quite  natural,  he  cared 
less  about  it  now  than  when  there  was  an  obstacle  in 
his  way.  There  was  no  danger  of  losing  her,  he  was 
sure,  and  he  could  wait  as  long  as  he  pleased  !  Once 
he  thought  of  going  to  Now  York  to  malce  some 
inquiries,  and  if  possible  find  Marian's  grave,  but  when 
lie  reflected  that  Sarah  (ireen  was  on  the  ocean,  even 
before  her  letter  readied  Kentucky,  he  decided  to  de- 
fer the  matter  until  their  removal  to  Yonkers,  which 
was  to  take  place  about  the  middle  of  May.  Isabel, 
too,  had  her  own  views  upon  the  subject  There  no 
longer  existed  a  reason  why  Frederic  should  not  ad- 
dress her,  and  in  her  estimation  nothing  could  be  more 
proper  than  to  christen  the  new  home  with  a  bride. 
So  she  bent  all  her  energies  to  the  task,  smiling  her 
sweetest  smile,  saying  her  softest  words,  and  playing 
the  amiable  lady  to  perfection.  But  it  availed  her 
nothing,  and  she  determined  at  last  upon  a  bolder 
movement. 

Finding  Frederic  alone  in  the  parlor,  one  day,  she 
said  : 

"  I  suppose  it  will  not  affect  you  materially  if 
mother  and  I  leave  when  you  remove  to  Yonkers. 
Agnes  Gibson,  you  know,  is  soon  to  be  married,  and 
she  has  invited  me  to  go  with  her  to  Florida,  where, 
she  says,  I  can  procure  a  good  situation  as  music- 
teacher,  and  mother  wishes  to  go  back  to  New  Ha- 
ven." 

The  announcement,  and  the  coolness  with  which  it 
was  made,  startled  Frederic,  and  he  replied,  rather 
anxiously : 

"I  have  never  contemplated  a  separation.  I  shall 
need  your  mother  there  more  than  I  do  here,  for  I 
shall  not  have  Dhiah." 


THE   EFFECT.  161 

"  Perhaps  you  can  persuade  her  to  stay,  but  I  think 
it  best  for  me  to  go,"  returned  Isabel,  delighted  with 
her  success. 

Frederic  Raymond  did  not  wish  Isabel  to  leave 
him,  and,  after  a  moment,  he  said  : 

"  Why  must  you  go,  Isabel  ?  Do  you  wish  for  a 
larger  salary  ?  Are  you  tired  of  us — of  me  ?"  And 
the  last  words  were  spoken  hesitatingly,  as  if  he 
doubted  the  propriety  of  his  saying  them. 

"  Oh*  Frederic  !"  and  in  the  soft,  black  eyes  raised 
for  an  instant  to  his  face,  and  then  modestly  withdrawn, 
there  was  certainly  a  tear!  "  Oh,  Frederic!"  was  all 
she  said,  and  Frederic  felt  constrained  to  answer : 
"  What  is  it,  Isabel  ?  Why  do  you  wish  to  go  ?" 

"  I  don't — I  don't,"  she  answered,  passionately ; 
"  but  respect  for  myself  demands  it.  People  are 
already  talking  about  my  living  here  with  you  ;  and 
now  poor  Marian  is  dead  and  you  are  a  widower,  it 
will  be  tenfold  worse.-  I  wish  they  would  let  us  alone, 
for  I  have  been  so  happy  here  and  am  so  much 
attached  to  Alice.  It  will  almost  break  my  heart  to 
leave  her !" 

Isabel  Huntington  was  wondrously  beautiful  then, 
and  Frederic  Raymond  was  sorely  tempted  to  bid  her 
stay,  not  as  Alice's  governess,  nor  yet  as  the  daughter 
of  his  housekeeper,  but  as  his  wife  and  mistress  of  his 
house.  Several  times  he  tried  to  speak,  and  at  last, 
crossing  over  to  where  she  sat,  he  began — "  Isabel,  I 
have  never  heard  that  people  were  talking  of  you  ; 
there  is  no  reason  why  they  should,  but  if  they  are  I 
can  devise  a  method  of  stopping  it  and  still  keeping 
you  with  us.  I  have  never  spoken  to  you  of — "  love, 
he  was  going  to  say,  and  the  graceful  head  was  already 
bent  to  catch  the  sound,  when  a  little  voice  chimed  in,* 
"  Please,  Frederic,  I  am  here,"  and  looking  up  they 
saw  before  them  Alice. 

She  had  entered  unobserved  and  was  standing  just 
within  the  door,  where  she  heard  what  Frederic  said. 
Intuitively  she  felt  what  would  follow  next,  and 


162  THE   EFFECT. 

scarcely  knowing  what  she  did,  she  tiaa  apprised  them 
of  her  presence. 

"  The  brat !"  was  Isabel's  mental  comment,  while 
Frederic  was  sensible  of  a  feeling  of  relief,  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  wakened  from  a  spell,  or  been  saved  from 
Borne  great  peril.  For  several  moments  Isabel  sat, 
hoping  Alice  would  leave  the  room,  but  she  did  not, 
and  in  no  very  amiable  mood  the  lady  was  herself  con- 
,  strained  to  go,  by  a  call  from  her  mother,  who  wished 
to  see  her  on  some  trivial  matter. 

When  she  was  gone,  Alice  groped  her  way  to  the 
sofa,  and  climbing  upon  it  said  to  Frederic,  "  Won't 
you  read  me  that  letter  again  which  Mrs.  Green  wrote 
to  you  ?" 

He  complied  with  her  request,  and  when  he  had  fin- 
ished, the  child  continued,  "  If  Marian  had  really  died, 
wouMn't  she  have  sent  some  message  to  me,  and 
wouldn't  that  woman  have  told  us  how  she  happened 
to  be  way  off  there,  and  all  about  it  ?" 

"  If  Marian  really  died  /"  repeated  Fredeiic.  "  Do 
you  doubt  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  child,  "  Marian  loved  me  most 
as  well  as   she  did  you,  and  she  surely  would  have 
talked  of  me  and  sent  me  some  word ;  then,  too,  it 
there  much  diifereuce  between  scarlet  fever  and  can 
ker-rash?     Don't  some  folks  call  it  by  both  names?" 

"  I  believe  they  do,"  said  Frederic,  wondering  to  wh& 
all  this  was  tending. 

"  Marian  had  the  scarlet  fever,  and  I,  too,  just  afte 
I  came  here,"  was  Alice's  next  remark.  "  You  were 
at  college,  but  I  remember  it,  and  so  does  Dinah,  for  " 
asked  her  a  little  while  ago.  Can  folks  have  it  twice  ?' 
and  the  blind  eyes  looked  up  at  Frederic,  as  if  sure 
'that  this  last  argument  at  least  were  proof  conclusive 
of  Marian's  existence. 

"  Sometimes,  but  not  often,"  answered  Frederic,  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  creeping  into  his  own  mind. 

"  And  if  they  do,"  persisted  Alice,  who  had  been 
consulting  with  Dinah — u  if  they  do,  they  seldom  have 


THE   EFFECT.  163 

it  hard  enough  to  die,  so  Dinah  says  ;  and  I  don't  be- 
lieve that  was  a  good,  true  letter.  Somebody  wrote  it, 
to  be  wicked.  Marian  is  alive,  I  almost  know." 

"  Must  you  see  her  dead  body,  to  be  convinced  ?" 
asked  Frederic,  a  little  impatiently ;  and  Alice  re 
joined  : 

"  No,  ho ;  but  somehow  it  don't  seem  right  for  you 
to — to — oh,  Frederic  !"  and,  bursting  into  tears,  she 
came  at  once  to  the  root  of  the  whole  matter. 

She  had  thought  a  great  deal  about  the  letter,  won- 
dering why  Marian  had  failed  to  speak  of  her,  and  at 
last  rejecting  it  as  an  impossibility.  Suddenly,  too, 
she  remembered  that  once,  when  she  and  Marian  were 
sick,  she  heard  some  of  the  neighbors  speak  of  their 
disease  as  scarlet  fever,  while  others  called  it  the  can- 
ker-rash ;  and  all  united  in  saying  they  could  have  it 
but  once.  This  had  led  to  inquiries  of  Dinah,  and  had 
iinally  resulted  in  her  conviction  that  Marian  might 
possibly  be  living.  Full  of  this  new  idea,  she  had  has- 
tened to  Frederic,  and  accidentally  overheard  what  he 
M'as  saying  to  Isabel.  She  comprehended  it,  too,  and 
knew  that  but  for  her  unexpected  presence  he  would, 
perhaps,  have  asked  the  lady  to  be  his  wife,  and  she 
felt  again  as  if  Marian  were  there  urging  her  to  stand 
once  more  between  Frederic  and  temptation.  All  this 
she  told  to  him,  and  the  proud,  haughty  man,  who 
would  have  spurned  a  like  interference  from  any  other 
source,  listened  patiently  to  the  pleadings  of  the  child- 
ish voice,  which  said  to  him  so  earnestly  : 

"  Don't  let  Isabel  be  your  wife !" 

"  What  objection  have  you  to  her?"  he  asked  ;  and 
"when  she  replied,  "She  isn't  good,"  he  questioned  her 
further  as  to  the  cause  of  her  dislike — "  was  there 
really  a  reason,  or  was  it  mere  prejudice  ?" 

"  I  try  to  like  her,"  said  Alice,  "and  sometimes  I  do 
real  well,  bat  she  don't  act  alone  with  me  like  she  does 
when  you  are  round.  She'll  be  just  as  cross  as  fury, 
and  if  you  come  in,  she'll  smooth  i»y  hair  and  call  me 
<  little  pet.' "  ' 


164:  TIJE    EFFECT. 

"  Does  she  ever  strike  you  ?"  asked  Frederic,  feeling 
a  desire  to  hear  Alice's  version  of  that  story. 

Instantly  tears  came  in  Alice's  eyes,  and  she  replied, 
"  Only  once — and  she  said  she  didn't  mean  that— bnt, 
Frederic,  she  did,"  and  in  her  own  way  Alice  told  the 
stpry,  which  sounded  to  Mr.  Raymond  more  like  the 
truth  than  the  one  he  had  heard  from  Isabel.  Gradu- 
ally the  conviction  was  forcing  itself  upon  him  that 
Isabel  was  not  exactly  what  she  seemed.  Still  he 
could  not  suddenly  shake  off'  the  chain  which  bound 
him,  and  when  Alice  said  to  him  in  her  odd,  straight- 
forward way,  "  Don't  finish  what  you  were  saying  to 
Is ibel  until  you've  been  to  New  York  and  found  if  the 
letter  is  true,"  lie  answered,  "  Fie,  Alice,  you  are  un- 
reasonable to  ask  such  a  thing  of  me.  Marian  is  dead. 
I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  and  I  am  free  from  the  promise 
made  to  you  more  than  a  year  since-" 

"  May  be  she  isn't,"  was  Alice's  reply,  "and  if  she 
is,  we  shall  both  feel  better,  if  you  go  and  see.  Go, 
Frederic,  do.  It  won't  take  long,  and  if  you  find  she 
is  really  dead,  I'll  never  speak  another  naughty  word 
of  Isabel,  but  try  to  love  her  just  as  I  want  to  love 
your  wife.  Will  you  go,  Frederic  ?  I  heard  you  say 
you  ought  to  see  the  house  before  we  moved,  and 
Yonkers  is  close  to  New  York,  isn't  it  ?" 

This  last  argument  was  m<»re  convincing  than  any 
which  Alice  had  offered,  for  Frederic  had  left  the  en- 
tire management  of  repairs  to  one  whom  he  knew 
understood  such  matters  better  than  himself,  conse- 
quently he  had  not  been  there  at  all,  and  he  had 
several  times  spoken  of  going  up  to  see  that  all  was 
right.  Particularly  would  he  wish  to  do  this  if  he 
.iook  thither  a  bride  in  May,  and  to  Alice's  suggestion 
he  replied,  "  I  might,  perhaps,  do  that  for  the  sake  of 
gratifying  you." 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  would  !"  answered  Alice.  "  You'll 
find  her  somewhere — I  know  you  will — and  then  you'll 
be  so  glad  you  went." 

Fieueric  was  not  quite  so  sure  of  that,  but  it  was 


THE   EFFECT.  165 

;nfe  to  go,  and  while  Isabel  had  been  communicating 
to  her  mother  what  he  had  been  saying  to  her,  and 
asking  if  it  were  not  almost  a  proposal,  he  was  deciding 
to  start  for  New  York  immediate!}'.  Alice's  reasons 
for  doubting  the  authenticity  of  the  letter  seemed  more 
and  more  plausible  the  longer  lie  thought  of  their, 
and  at  supper  that  night  lie  astonished  both  Mrs. 
Huntington  and  daughter  by  saying  that  he  was  going 
North  in  a  few  days,  and  he  wished  the  former  to  see 
that  his  wardrobe  was  in  a  proper  condition  for  travel- 
ing. Isabel's  face  grew  dark  as  ni^ht,  and  the  wrath- 
ful expression  of  her  eyes  was  noticable  even  to  him. 
"  There  is  a  good  deal  of  temper  there,"  was  his  mental 
comment,  while  Isabel  feigned  some  trivial  excuse  and 
left  the  room  to  hide  the  anger  she  knew  was  visible 
upon  her  tace.  He  had  commenced  proposing  to  her, 
she  was  sure,  and  he  should  not  leave  Itedstone  Hall 
until  he  explained  himself  more  fully.  Still  it  would 
not  be  proper  for  her  to  broach  the  subject — her 
mother  must  do  that.  It  was  a  parent's  duty  to  see 
that  her  daughter's  feelings  were  not  trifled  with,  and 
by  dint  of  cajolery,  entreaties  and  threats,  she  induced 
the  old  lady  to  have  a  talk  with  Frederic,  and  ask  him 
what  his  intentions  were. 

Mrs.  Huntington  was  not  very  lucid  in  her  remarks, 
and  without  exactly  knowing  what  she  meant,  Frederic 
replied  at  random  that  he  was  in  earnest  in  all  he  had 
said  to  Isabel  about  her  remaining  there,  that  he  did 
not  wish  her  to  go  away  for  she  seemed  one  of  the 
family,  and  that  he  would  speak  with  her  further  upon 
the  subject  when  he  came  back.  This  was  not  very 
definite,  but  Mrs.  Huntington  brushed  it  up  a  little  ere 
repeating  it  to  Isabel,  who  readily  accepted  it  as  an  in- 
timation that  after  his  return,  he  intended  asking  her 
directly  to  be  his  wife.  Accordingly  she  told  Agnea 
Gibson  confidentially  what  her  expectations  were,  and 
Agnes  told  it  confidentially  to  several  others,  who  had 
each  a  confidential  friend,  and  so  in  course  of  a  few 
days  it  was  generally  understood  that  Redstone  Hall 


168  THE   EFFECT. 

was  to  have  another  mistress.  Agnes  in  particular  waa 
very  busy  disseminating  news,  hoping  by  this  means 
to  turn  the  public  gossip  from  herself  and  the  white- 
haired  man,  or  rather  the  plantation  in  Florida,  which 
she  was  soon  to  marry.  In  spite  of  her  protestations 
to  the  contrary  people  would  say  that  money  and  not 
love  actuated  her  choice,  and  she  was  glad  of  anything 
which  would  give  her  a  little  rest.  So  she  repeated 
Isabel's  story  again  and  again,  charging  each  and  every 
one  never  to  mention  it  and  consulting  between-times 
with  her  bosom  friend  as  to  what  her  arrangements 
were,  and  suggesting  that  they  be  married  on  the  same 
day  and  so  make  the  same  tour.  On  the  subject  of 
bridal  presents  Agnes  had  a  kind  of  mania,  and  know- 
ing this,  some  of  her  friends,  who  lived  at  a  distance 
and  could  not  be  present  at  the  ceremony,  sent  their's 
in  advance — several  of  them  as  a  matter  of  c'ourse  de- 
ciding upon  the  same  thing,  so  that  in  Agnes'  private 
drawer  there  were  now  deposited  three  fish  knives  and 
forks,  all  of  which  were  the  young  lady's  particular 
aversion.  She  would  dispose  of  one  of  them  at  all 
hazards,  she  thought,  and  receive  more  than  an  equiva- 
lent in  return,  so  she  began  to  pave  the  way  for  a 
costly  bridal  present  from  the  future  Mrs.  Frederic 
Raymond,  by  hinting  of  an  elegant  jishknife  andfork^ 
which  in  its  satin-lined  box  would  look  handsomely 
upon  the  table,  and  Isabel,  though  detesting  the  article 
and  thinking  she  should  prefer  almost  anything  else, 
said  she  was  delighted,  and  when  her  friend  came 
home'trorn  the  south,  she  should  invite  her  to  dinner 
certainly  once  a  week. 

This  arrangement  vvae  generally  understood,  as  were 
many  others  of  a  similar  nature,  until  at  last  .even  the 
bridal  dress  was  selected,  arid  people  said  it  was  mak- 
ing in  Lexington,  where  Frederic  was  well  known, 
and  where  the  story  of  his  supposed  engagement  cir- 
culated rapidly,  reaching  to  the  second-rate  iiotel  where 
Rudolph  McVicar  was  a  boarder.  Exultingly  his 
wild  eves  flashed,  and  when  he  heard,  as  he  did,  that 


THE   EFFECT.  167 

the  wedding  was  fixed  for  the  20th  of  May,  which  he 
knew  was  Isabel's  birthday,  he  counted  the  hours 
which  must  elapse  ere  the  moment  of  his  triumph 
came.  And  while  he  waited  thus,  and  rumor,  with 
her  lying  tongue,  told  each  day  some  tresh  falsehood 
of  "that  marriage  in  high  life,"  Frederic- Raymond 
went  on  his  way,  and  with  each  milestone  passed,  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lost  one — the  Marian  who 
would  stand  between  him  and  Isabel. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    HOUSE    ON   THE    RIVEB. 

"  MARIAN,"  said  Ben,  one  pleasant  Apr!  morning, 
"  Frederic's  house  is  finished  in  tip-top  style,  and  if 
you  say  so,  we'll  go  out  and  take  a  look.  It  will  do 
you  good  to  see  the  old  place  once  more  and  know 
just  how  things  are  fixed." 

"  Oh,  I'd  like  it  so  much,"  returned  Marian,  "  but 
what  if  I  should  fall  upon  Frederic?" 

" No  danger,"  answered  Ben;  "  the  man  who  has 
charge  of  everything  told  me  he  wasn't  comin'  till 
May,  and  the  old  woman  who  is  tendin?  to  things 
knows  I  have  seen  Mr.  Raymond,  for  I  told  her  so, 
and  she  won't  think  nothin' ;  so  clap  on  your  clothes 
in  a  jiff,  for  we*'ve  barely  time  to  reach  the  cars." 

Marian  did  not  hesitate  long  ere  deciding  to  go,  and 
in  a  few  moments  they  were  in  the  street.  As  they 

were  passing  the Hotel,  Ben  suddenly  left  her, 

and  running  up  the  steps  spoke  to  one  of  the  servants 
with  whom  he  was  acquainted.  Returning  ere  long, 
he  said,  by  way  of  apology,  "I  was  in  there  last  night 
to  see  Jim,  and  he  told  me  there  was  a  man  took  sick 
with  a  ravin'  fever,  pretty  muchlike  you  had  when  you 
bit  your  tongue  most  in  two.'' 

Marian  shuddered  involuntarily,  and  without  know- 
ing why,  felt  a  deep  interest  in  the  stranger,  thinking 
how  terrible  it  was  to  be  sick  and  alone  in  a  crowded, 
noisy  hotel. 

"  Is  he  better  ?"  she  asked,  and  Ben  replied,  "  No, 


THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   RIVER.  169 

ten  times  wus — lie'll  die  most  likely.  But  hurry  up— 
here's  the  omnibus  we  want,"  and  in  the  excitement 
of  securing  a  seat,  they  both  forgot  the  sick  man. 

The  trip  to  Yonkers  was  a  pleasant  one,  for  to  Ma 
rian  it  seemed  like  going  home,  and  when,  after  reach- 
ing the  station,  they  entered  the  lumbering  stage  and 
wound  slowly  up  the  long,  steep  hill,  she  recognized 
many  familiar  way  marks,  and  drawing  her  vail  over 
her  face,  wept  silently  as  she  remembered  all  she  had 
passed  through  since  the  night  when  Col.  Raymond 
first  took  her  up  that  same  long  hill,  and  told  her  by 
the  way,  of  his  boy  Frederic,  who  would  be  delighted 
with  a  sister.  The  fond  old  man  was  dead  now,  and 
she,  the  little  girl  he  had  loved  so  much,  was  a  sad 
lonely  woman,  going  back  to  visit  the  spot  which  had 
been  so  handsomely  fitted  up  without  a  thought  of 
her. 

The  house  itself  was  greatly  changed,  but  the  view 
it  commanded  of  the  river  and  the  scenery  beyond 
was  the  same,  and  leaning  against  a  pillar  Marian 
tried  to  fancy  that  she  was  a  child  again  and  listening 
for  the  bold  footsteps  of  the  handsome,  teasing  bov, 
once  her  terror  and  her  pride.  But  all  in  vain  she 
listened  :  the  well- remembered  foot-fall  did  not  come: 
the  handsome  boy  was  not  there,  and  even  had  he 
been,  she  would  scarcely  have  recognized  him  in  the 
haughty,  elegant  young  man,  her  husband.  Yes,  he  was 
her  husband,  and  she  repeated  the  name  to  herself,  and 
when  at  last  Ben  touched  her  on  the  shoulder,  saying, 
"  I  have  told  Miss  Russell  my  sister  was  here,  and  she 
Bays  you  can  go  over  the  house,"  she  started  as  if  wak- 
ing from  a  dream. 

"  Let  us  go  through  the  garden  first,"  she  said,  as 
she  led  the  way  to  the  maple  tree  where  summers 
before  che  had  built  her  little  play-house,  and  whera 
on  the  bark,  just  as  high  as  his  head  then  came,  the 
name  of  Frederic  was  cut. 

Far  below  it,  and  at  a  point  which  her  red  curls 
had  reached,  there  was  another  name — her  own — and 

8 


170  "  THE    HOUSE    ON    THE   RIVEE. 

Frederic's  jack-knife  had  made  that,   too,    while   she 
stood  by  and  said  to  him,  "I  wish  I  was  Marian  Ray- 
mond, instead  of  Marian  Liiidsey." 
.  How  distinctly  she  remembered  the   characteristic 
reply : 

"  If  you  should  happen  to  be  my  wife,  you  would  be 
Marian  Raymond ;  but  pshaw,  I  shall  marry  a  great 
deal  prettier  woman  than  you  will  ever  be,  and  you 
may  live  with  us  if  you  want  to,  and'take  care  of  the 
children.  I  mean  to  have  a  lot !" 

She  had  not  thought  of  this  speech  in  years,  but  it 
come  back  to  her  vividly  now,  as  did  many  other 
things  which  had  occurred  there  long  ago.  Within 
the  house  everything  was  changed,  but  they  had  no 
trouble  in  identifying  the  different  rooms,  and  she  lin- 

fered  long  in  the  one  she  felt  sure  was  intended  for 
'rederic  himself,  sitting  in  the  chair  where  she  knew 
he  would  often  sit,  and  wondering  if,  while  sitting 
there,  he  would  ever  thiiik  of  her.  Perhaps  he  might 
be  afraid  of  meeting  her  accidentally  in  New  York,  and 
so  he  would  seldom  come  there ;  or,  if  he  did,  it  would 
be  after  dark,  or  when  she  was  not  in  the  street,  and 
thus  she  should  possibly  never  see  him,  as  she  hoped 
to  do.  The  thought  was  a  sad  one,  and  never  before 
had  the  gulf  between  herself  and  Frederic  seemed  so 
utterly  impassible  as  on  that  April  morning  when,  iu 
his  room  and  his  arm  chair,  the  girl-wife  sat  and  ques- 
tioned the  dark  future  of  what  it  had  in  store  for  her. 
Once  she  was  half  tempted  to  leave  some  rnomento 
— something  which  would  tell  him  she  had  been  there. 
Sne  spurned  the  idea  as  soon  as  formed.  She  would 
not  intrude  herself  upon  him  a  second  time,  and  rising 
at  last,  she  arranged  the  furniture  more  to  her  taste, 
changed  the  position  of  a  picture,  moved  the  mirror 
into  a  perfect  angle,  set  Frederic's  chair  before  the 
window  looking  out  upon  the  river,  and  then,  standing 
in  the  door,  fancied  that  she  saw  him,  with  his  hand- 
some face  turned  to  the  light,  and  his  rich  brown  hair 
shading  his  white  brow.  At  his  feet,  and  not  far  away 


THE    HOUSE    ON    THE    KIVER.  171 

was  a  little  stool,  and  if  she  could  only  sit  there  once, 
resting  her  head  npon  his  knee  and  hear  him  speaking 
to  her  kindly,  affectionately,  she  felt  that  she  would 
gladly  die,  and  leave  to  another  the  caresses  she  could 
never  hope  to  receive. 

Isabel's  chamber  was  visited  next,  and  Marian's 
would  have  been  less  than  a  woman's  nature  conld 
she  have  looked,  without  a  pang,  upon  the  costly  fur- 
niture and  rare  ornaments  which  had  been  gathered 
there.  In  the  disposal  of  the  furniture  there  was  a 
lack  of  taste — a  decidedly  Mrs.  Russell  air;  but  Ma- 
rian had  no  wish  to  interfere.  There  was  something 
sickening  in  the  very  atmosphere  of  her  rival's  apart- 
ment, and  with  a  long,  deep  sigh,  sbe  turned  away.. 
Opening  the  door  of  an  adjoining  chamber,  she  stood 
for  a  moment  motionless,  while  her  lips  moved  nerv- 
ously, for  she  knew  that  this  was  Alice's  room.  It 
was  smaller  than  the  others,  and  with  its  neat  white  fur- 
niture, seemed  well  adapted  to  the  pure,  sinless  child 
who  was  to  occupy  it.  Here  too,  she  tarried  long, 
gazing,  through  blinded  tears,  upon  the  little  rocking- 
chair  just  fitted  to  Alice's  form,  looping  up  the  soft 
lace  custains,  brushing  the  dust  from  the  marble  man- 
tle, and  patting  lovingly  the  snowy  pillows,  for  the 
sake  of  the  fair  head  which  would  rest  there  some 
night. 

u  There  are  no  flowers  here,"  said  she,  glancing  at 
the  tiny  vases  on  the  stand.  "  Alice  is  fond  of  flow- 
ers, and  though  they  will  be  withered  ere  she  comes, 
she  will  be  sure  to  find  them,  and  who  knows  but  their 
faint  perfume  may  remind  her  of  me,"  and  going  out 
into  the  garden  she  gathered  some  hyacinths  and  vio- 
lets which  she  made  into  boquets  and  placed  them  in 
the  vases,  and  bidding  the  old  woman  change  the 
water  every  day,  until  they  began  to  fade,  and  then 
leave  them  to  dry  until  the  blind  girl  came.  "  Ben. 
told  me  of  her  ;  he  once  staid  at  iiedstone  Hall  all 
night,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  the  woman's  inquiring 


172  THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  EIVEB. 

look.  "  He  says  she  is  a  sweet  young  creature,  and  I 
thought  flowers  might  please  her." 

"  Fresh  ones  would,"  returned  Mrs.  Russell  "  but 
them  that's  withered  ain't  no  use.  S'pose  I  fling  'em 
u way  when  they  get  old  and  put  in  some  new  the  day 
she  comes?" 

"No,  no,  not  for  the  world,  leave  them  as  they  are," 
and  Marian  spoke  so  earnestly  that  the  old  lady  prom- 
ised compliance  with  her  request. 

"  Be  you  that  Yankee  peddler's  sister,"  she  asked, 
as  she  followed  Marian  down  the  stairs.  "If  you  be, 
nater  cut  up  a  curis  caper  with  one  or  t'other  of  you, 
for  you  ain't  no  more  alike  than  nothin'." 

"  I  believe  I  do  not  resemble  him  much,"  was  Ma- 
rian's evasive  answer,  as  with  a  farewell  glance  at  the 
old  place,  she  bade  Mrs.  Russell  good-by  and  went 
with  Ben  to  the  gate  where  the  stage  was  waiting  to 
take  them  back  to  the  depot. 

It  was  dark  when  they  reached  New  York,  and  as 

they  passed  the  — Hotel  a  second  time,  Marian 

spoke  of  the  sick  man,  and  wondered  how  he  was. 

"  I  might  go  in  and  see,"  said  Ben,  "  but  it's  so 
late  I  guess  I  won't,  particularly  as  he's  nothin'  to  us." 

"  But  he's  something  to  somebody,"  returned  Marian, 
and  as  she  followed  on  after  Ben,  her  thoughts  turned 
continually  upon  him,  wondering  if  he  had  a  mother 
— a  sister — or  a  wile,  and  if  they  knew  how  sick  ho 
was. 

While  thus  reflecting  they  reached  home,  where 
they  found  Mrs.  Burt  entertaining  a  visitor — a  Martha 
Gibbs,  who  for  some  time. had  been  at  the Ho- 
tel, in  the  capacity  of  chamber-maid,  but  who  was  to 
leave  there  the  next  day.  Martha's  parents  lived  in 
the  same  New  England  village  where  Mis.  Burt  had 
formerly  resided,  and  the  two  thus  became  acquainted, 
Martha  making  Mrs.  Burt  the  depository  of  all  her  lit' 
tie  secrets  and  receiving  in  return  much  motherly  ad- 
vice. She  was  to  be  married  soon,  and  though  her 
destination  was  a  log  house  in  the  West,  and  her  bri- 


THE   HOUSE    ON   THE   EIVEK.  173 

dal  trousseau  consisted  merely  of  three  dresses — a  silk, 
a  delaine  and  a  calico — it  was  an  affair  of  great  conse- 
quence to  her,  and  she  had  come  as  usual  to  talk  it 
over  with  Mrs.  Burt,  feeling  glad  at  the  absence  of  Ben 
and  Marian,  the  latter  of  whom  she  supposed  was  an 
orphan  neitfe  of  her  friend's  husband.  The  return  of 
the  young  people  operated  as  a  restraint  upon  her,  and 
changing  the  conversation,  she  spoke  at  last  of  a  sick 
man  who  was  up  in  the  third  story  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  which  she  had  the  charge. 

"  He  had  the  typhoid  fever,"  she  said,  "  and  was 
raving  distracted  with  his  head.  They  wanted  some 
good  experienced  person  to  take  care  of  him,  and  had 
asked  her  to  stay,  she  seemed  so  handy,  but  she 
couldn't.  John  wouldn't  put  their  wedding  off,  she 
knew,  and  she  must  go,  though  she  did  pity  the  poor 
young  man — he  raved  and  took  on  so,  asking  them  if 
anybody  had  seen  Marian,  or  knew  where  she  was 
buried  1" 

Up  to  this  point  Marian  had  listened,  because  sho 
knew  it  was  the  same  man  of  whom  Ben  had  told  her 
in  the  morning" ;  but  now  the  pulsations  of  her  heart 
stopped,  her  head  grew  dizzy,  her  brain  whirled,  and 
she  was  conscious  of  nothing  except  that  Ben  made  a 
hurried  movement  and  then  passed  his  arm  around  her, 
while  he  held  a  cup  of  water  to  her  lips,  sprinkling 
some  upon  her  face,  and  saying,  in  a  natural  voice, 
"  D.in't  you  want  a  drink  ?  My  walk  made  me  awful 
dry." 

It  was  dark  in  the  room,  for  the  lamp  was  not  yet 
lighted,  and  thus  Martha  did  not  see  the  side-play 
going  on.  She  only  knew  that  Ben  was  offering  Ma- 
rian some  water ;  but  Mrs.  Burt  understood  it,  and, 
when  sure  that  Marian  would  not  faint,  she  said  : 

'"  Where  did  the  .young  man  come  from,  and  what  is 
his  name?  Do  you  know  ?" 

"  He  registered  himself  as  F.  Raymond,  Franklin 
County r,  Kentucky"  returned  the  girl ;  "  and  that's  the 
bother  of  it.  Nobody  knows  where  to  direct  a  letter 


174:  THE   HOUSE   ON   THE   BIVEE. 

to  his  friends.  But  how  I  have  staid.  I  mnst  go  this 
minute,"  and  greatly  to  the  relief  of  the  family,  Martha 
took  her  leave. 

Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  after  her,  when  Marian 
was  on  her  knees,  and,  with  her  head  in  Mrs.  Burt's 
lap,  was  begging  of  her  to  offer  her  services  as  .nurse 
to  Frederic  Raymond ! 

"He  must  not  die  there  alone,"  she  cried.     "Say 

£>u  will  go,  or  my  heart  will  burst.  They  know 
artha  for  a  trusty  girl,  and  they  will  take  you  on  her 
recommendation.  Help  me,  Ben,  to  persuade  her," 
she  continued,  appealing  to  the  young  man,  who  had 
not  yet  spoken  upon  the  subject. 

He  had  been  thinking  of  it,  however,  and  as  he 
could  see  no  particular  objection,  he  said,  at  last  : 

"  May  «os  well  go,  I  guess.  It  won't  do  no  hurt,  any 
how,  and  mebby  it'll  be  the  means  of  savin'  his  life. 
You  can  tell  Martha  how't  you  s'pose  he'll  pay  a  good 
price  for  nussin',  and  she'll  think  it's  the  money  you 
are  after." 

This  suggestion  was  so  warmly  seconded  by  Marian, 
that  Mrs.  Burt  finally  consented  to  seeing  Martha, 
and  asking  her  what  she  thought  of  the  plan.  Accord- 
ingly, early  the  next  morning,  she  sought  an  interview 
with  the  young  woman,  inquiring,  first,  how  the  stran- 
ger was,  and  then,  continuing — 

""What  do  you  think  of  my  turning  nurse  awhile 
and  taking  care  of  him  ?  I  am  used  to  such  folks,  and 
I  presume  the  gentleman  is  plenty  able  to  pay." 

She  had  dragged  this  last  in  rather  bunglingly,  but 
it  answered  every  purpose,  for  Martha,  who  knew  her 
thrifty  habits,  understood  at  once  that  money  was  the 
inducement,  and  she  replied,  "  Of  course  he  is.  Ilia 
watch  is  worth  t\vo  hundred  dollars,  to  say  nothing  of 
a  diamond  pin.  I  for  one  shall  be  glad  to  have  you 
come,  for  I  am  going  away  some  time  to-day,  and 
there'll  be  nobody  in  particular  to  take  care  of  him. 
I'll  speak  about  it  right  away." 

The  result  of  this  speaking  was   that  Mrs.  Burt's 


THE  HOUSE  ON  THE  BIVEB.  175 


offered  services  were  readily  accepted,  for  Martha 
known  to  be  an  honest,  faithful  girl,  and  any  one 
\\hom  she  recommended  must,  of  course,  be  respecta- 
ble and  trusty.  By  some  chance,  however,  there  was  a 
misunderstaTiding  about  the  name,  which  was  first  con- 
strued into  Burton  and  then  into  Merton,  and  as  Mar- 
tha, who  alone  could  rectify  the  error,  left  that  after- 
noon, the  few  who  knew  of  the  sick  man  and  his  nurse, 
spoke  of  the  latter  as  a  "  Mrs.  Merton,  from  the  coun- 
try, probably."  So  when  at  night  Mrs.  Burt  appeared 
and  announce  herself  as  ready  to  assume  her  duties, 
she  was  surprised  at  hearing  herself  addressed  by  her 
new  name,  and  she  was  about  to  correct  it  when  she 
thought,  "  It  doesn't  matter  what  I'm  called,  and  per- 
haps on  the  whole,  I'd  rather  not  be  known  by  my  real 
name.  I  don't  believe  much  in.  goin'  oat  nussin'  any 
way,  and  I  guess  I'll  let  'em.  call  me  what  they 
want  to." 

She  accordingly  made  no  explanation,  but  followed 
the  servant  girl  up  three  long  nights  of  stairs,  and 
turning  down  a  narrow  hall,  stood  ere  long  at  the  door 
of  the  sick  room. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE       FEVER. 

NIGHT  and  day  Frederic  Raymond  had  traveled, 
never  allowing  himself  a  minute's  rest,  nor  even  stop- 
ping at  Yonkers,  so  latent  was  he  upon  reaching  New 
York  and  finding,  if  possible,  some  clue  to  Marian.  It 
was  a  hopeless  task,  for  he  had  no  starting  point — 
nothing  which  could  guide  him  in  the  least,  save  the 
name  of  Sarah  Green,  and  even  that  was  not  in  the 
Directory,  while  to  inquire  for  her  former  place  of 
residence,  was  as  preposterous  as  Marian's  inquiry  for 
Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  f  Still,  whatever  he  could  do  he  did, 
traversing  street  after  street,  threading  alley  after 
alley,  asking  again  and  again  of  the  squalid  heads 
thrust  from  the  dingy  windows,  if  Sarah  Green  had 
ever  lived  in  that  locality,  and  receiving  always  the 
same  impudent  stare  and  short  answer,  "  3STo." 

Once,  in  another  and  worse  part  of  the  city,  he  fan- 
cied he  had  found  her,  and  that  she  had  not  sailed  for 
Scotland  as  she  had  written,  for  they  had  told  him 
that  "  Sal  Green  lived,  up  in  the  fourth  story,"  and 
climbing  the  crazy  stairs,  he  knocked  at  the  low,  dark 
door,  shuddering  involuntarily  and  experiencing  a 
feeling  of  mortified  pride  as  he  thought  it  possible  that 
.Marian — his  wite — had  toiled  up  that  weary  way  to 
die.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  blear-eyed,  hard- 
faced  woman,  who  started  at  sight  of  the  elegant 
stranger,  and  to  his  civil  questions  replied  rather 
gruffly,  "  Yes,  I'm  Sal  Green,  I  s'pose,  or  Sarah,  jest 
which  you  choose  to  call  me,  but  the  likes  of  Marian 
Lindsey  never  came  near  me,"  and  glancing  around 


THE   FEVEB.  177 

the  dirty,  wretched  room,  Frederic  was  glad  that  it 
was  so.  He  would  rather  not  find  her,  or  hear  tidings 
of  her,  than  to  know  that  ^he  had  lived  and  died  in 
such  a  place  as  this,  and  with  a  sickening  sensation  he 
was  turning  away,  when  the  woman,  who  was  blessed 
with  a  remarkable  memory  and  never  forgot  anything 
to  which  her  attention  was  particularly  directed,  said 
to  him,  "  You  say  it's  a  year  last  Fall  sence  she  left 
home." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  replied  eagerly,  and  she  continued, 
"  You  say  she  dressed  in  black,  and  wore  a  great  long 
vail  ?" 

"The  same,  the  same,"  he  cried,  advancing  into  the 
room  and  thrusting  a  bill  into  the  long  hand,  "  oh,  my 
good  woman,  have  you  seen  her,  and  where  is  she 
now?" 

"The  Lord  knows,  mebby,  but  I  don't,"  answered 
the  woman,  who  was  identical  with  the  one  who  had 
so  frightened  Marian  by  watching  her  on  that  day 
when  she  sat  in  front  of  Trinity  and  wished  that  she 
could  die,  k<  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  seen  her  at  all," 
she  continued,  "  but  a  year  ago  last  November  such  a 
girl  as  you  described,  with  long  curls  that  looked  red 
in  the  sunshine,  sat  on  the  steps  way  down  by  Trinity 
and  cried  so  hard  that  I  noticed  her,  and  knew  she 
warn't  a  beggar  by  her  dress.  It  was  gettin'  dark,  and 
I  was  go  in'  to  speak  to  her  when  Joe  Black  came  up 
and  asked  her  what  ailed  her,  or  somethin'.  He  am  t 
none  of  the  likeliest,"  and  a  grim  smile  flitted  over  the 
visaire  of  the  wrinkled  hag. 

"  Oh,  Heaven,"  cried  Frederic,  pressing  his  hands 
to  his  head,  as  if  to  crush  the  horrid  tear.  "  God  save 
her  from  that-  fate.  Is  this  all  you  know?  Can't  you 
Ijll  me  any  more?  I'll  give  you  half  my  fortune  if 
you'll  bring  back  my  poor,  lost  Marian,  just  as  she  was 
when  she  left  me." 

The  offer  wTas  a  generous  one,  and  Sal  was  tempted 
for  a  moment  to  tell  him  soine  big  lie,  and  thus  receive 
a  companion  to  the  bill  she  clutched  so  greedily,  but 


173  THE   FEVER. 

the  agonizing  expression  of  his  white  face  kindled 
.a  spark  of  pity  within  her  bosom,  and  she  replied,  k<  I 
did  not  finish  tellin'  you  that  while  Joe  was  talking 
and  had  seemingly  persuaded  her  to  go  with  him,  a 
tall  chap  that  I  never  seen  before  knocked  him  flat, 
and  took  the  girl  with  him,  and  that's  why  I  remember 
it  so  well." 

"  Who  was  he,  this  tall  man?  Where  did  he  go?" 
and  Frederic  wiped  from  his  forehead  the  great  drops 
of  sweat  forced  out  by  terrible  fear. 

"  I  told  you  I  never  seen  him  before,"  was  Sally's 
answer,  "  but  he  had  a  good  face — a  milk  and  water 
face — as  if  he  never  plotted  no  mischief  in  his  life. 
She's  safe  with  him,  I'm  sure.  I'd  trust  my  daughter 
with  him,  if  I  had  one,  and  know  he  wouldn't  harm 
her.  He  spoke  to  her  tender-like,  and  she  looked  glad, 
I  thought." 

Frederic  felt  that  this  information  was  better  than 
none,  for  it  was  certain  it  was  Marian  whom  the  woman 
had  seen,  and,  in  a  measure  comforted  by  her  assurance 
of  Ben  Burt's  honesry,  he  bade  her  good  morning,  and 
walked  away. 

At  last,  worn  out  and  discouraged,  he  returned  to 
his  hotel,  where  he  lay  now  burning  with  fever,  and, 
in  his  delirium,  calling  sometimes  for  Isabel,  sometimes 
tor  Alice,  and  again  for  faithful  Dinah,  but  never  ask- 
ing why  Marian  did  not  come.  She  was  dead,  and  he 
only  begged  of  those  around  him  to  take  her  away 
from  Joe  Black,  or  show  him  where  her  grave  was 
made,  so  he  could  go  home  and  tell  the  blind  girl  he 
had  seen  it.  Every  ray  of  light  which  it  was  possible 
to  shut  out  had  been  excluded  from  the  room,  for  he 
Jbad  complained  much  of  his  eyes,  and  when  Mrs. 
Burt  entered,  she  could  discover  only  the  outline  of  a 
ghastly  face  resting  upon  the  pillows,  scarcely  whiter 
tlian  itself.  It  was  a  serious  case,  the  attending  physi- 
cian said,  and  so  she  thought  when  she  looked  into  his 
,  bright  eyes,  and  felt  his  rapid  pulse.  To  her  he 
8* 


THE   FEVEK.  179 

put  the  same  question  lie  had  asked  nearly  of  every 
one : 

"  Do  you  know  where  Marian  is  ?" 

"  Marian  !"  she  repeated,  feeling  a  little  uncertain 
how  to  answer. 

"  Humor  him  I  say  you  do !"  whispered  the  physi- 
cian, who  was  just  taking  his  leave.  And  very  truth- 
fully Mrs.  Burt  replied: 

"  Yes,  I  know  where  she  is  1  She  will  come  to  you 
to-morrow." 

"  No  !"  he  answered  mournfully.  "  The  dead  never 
come  back,  and  it  must  not  be,  either.  Isabel  is  com- 
ing then,  and  the  two  can't  meet  together  here,  for — . 
Come  nearer,  woman,  while  I  tell  you  I  loved  Isabel 
the  best,  and  that's  what  made  the  trouble.  She  is 
beautiful,  but  Marian  was  good — and  do  you  know 
Marian  was  the  Heiress  of  Redstone  Hall;  but  I'm 
not  going  to  use  her  money." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Mrs.  Burt,  trying  to  quiet 
him,  but  in  vain. 

He  would  talk — sometimes  of  Marian,  and  some- 
times of  Sarah  Green,  and  the  dreary  room  where  he 
had  been. 

"It  made  Marian  tired,"  he  said,  "to  climb  those 
broken  stairs1— tired,  just  as  he  was  now.  But  she  was 
resting  so  quietly  in  Heaven,  and  the  April  sun  was 
shining  on  her  grave.  It  was  a  little  grave — a  child's 
grave,  as  it  were — for  Marian  was  not  so  tall  nor  so  old 
as  Isabel." 

In  this  way  he  rambled  on,  and  it  was  not  until  the 
morning  dawned  that  lie  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep,  and 
Mrs.  Burt  had  leisure  to  reflect  upon  the  novel  posi- 
tion in  which  she  found  herself. 

"It  was  foolish  in  me  to  give  up  to  them  children," 
she  said,  "  but  now  that  I  am  here,  I'll  make  the  best 
of  it,  and  do  as  well  as  I  can.  Marian  shan't  come, 
though!  It  would  kill  her  dead  to  hear  him  go- 
ing oil." 

Mrs.  Burt  was  a  little  rash  in  making  this  assertion, 


ISO  THE   FEVEB. 

for  even  while  she  spoke,  Marian  was  in  the  reception- 
room  below,  inquiring  for  the  woman  who  took  care 
of  Mr.  Raymond.  Not  once  during  the  long  night  had 
she  eyelids  closed  in  sleep,  and  with  the  early  morning 
she  had  started  for  the  hotel,  leaving  Ben  to  get  his 
breakfast  as  he  could. 

"  Say  Marian  Grey  wishes  to  see  her,"  she  said,  in 
answer  to  the  inquiry  as  to  what  name  the  servant  was 
to  take  to  No. 

"  My  goodness !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Burt ;  "  why  didn't 
Ben  keep  her  at  home?"  and,  gliding  down  the  stairs, 
she  tried  to  persuade  Marian  to  return. 

But  when  she  saw  the  firm,  determined  expression 
in  the  young  girl's  eye,  she  knew  it  was  useless  to  rea- 
son with  her,  and  saying,  rather  pettishly,  ".You  mu-t 
expect  to  hear  some  cuttin'  things,"  she  bade  her  fol- 
low up  the  stairs.  Frederic  still  lay  sleeping,  his  face 
turned  partly  to  one  side,  and  his  hand  resting  beneath 
his  head.  His  rich  brown  hair,  now  damp  with  heavy 
moisture,  was  pushed  back  from  his  white  forehead, 
which,  gleaming  through  the  dusky  darkness,  first 
showed  to  Marian  where  he  lay.  The  gas  light  hurt 
his  eyes,  and  the  lamp,  which  was  kept  continually 
burning,  was  so  placed  that  its  dim  light  did  not  fall 
on  him,  and  a  near  approach  was  necessary  to  tell  her 
just  how  he  looked.  He  was  fearfully  changed,  and, 
with  a  bitter  moan,  she  laid  her  head  beside  him  on 
the  pillow,  so  that  her  short  curls  mingled  with  hia 
darker  locks,  and  she  felt  his  hot  breath  on  her  cheek. 

"  Frederic  —dear  Frederic !"  she  said,  and  at  the 
sound  of  her  voice  he  moved  uneasily,  as  if  about  to 
waken. 

"  Come  away,  come  away,"  whispered  Mrs.  Burt. 
"  He  may  know  you,  and  a  sudden  start  would  kill 
him." 

But  Marian  was  deaf  to  all  else  save  thq  whispered 
words  dropping  from  the  sick  man's  lips.  They  were 
of  home,  of  Alice,  of  the  library,  and  oh,  joy !  could 
it  be  she  heard  aright — did  he  speak  of  her  ?  "\V~as  it 


THE   FEVER.  181 

• 

Marian  he  said  ?  Yes,  it  was  Marian,  and  with  a  cry 
of  delight,  which  started  Mrs.  Burt  to  her  feet,  and 
penetrated  even  to  the  ear  of  the  unconscious  Frederic, 
Blie  pressed  her  lips  upon  the  very  spot  which  they 
had  touched  before  on  that  night  when  she  gave  him 
her  first  kiss.  Slowly  his  eyes  unclosed,  but  the  wild- 
ness  was  still  there,  and  Mrs.  Bart,  who  stood  anx- 
iously watching  him,  felt  glad  that  it  was  so.  Slowly 
they  wandered  about  the  room,  resting  first  upon  the 
door,  then  on  the  chandelier,  then  on  the  ceiling 
above,  and  dropping  finally  lower,  until  at  last  they 
met  and  were  riveted  upon  Marian,  who,  with  clasped 
hand?,  stood  breathlessly  awaiting  the  result. 

"  Will  he  know  her?  Does  he  know  her  ?"  was  the 
mental  query  of  Mrs.  Burt ;  while  Marian's  fast-breath- 
ing heart  asked  the  same  question  eagerly.  There  was 
a  wavering,  a  fierce  struggle  between  delirium  and 
reason,  and  then,  with  a  faint  smile,  he  said  : 

"  Did  you  kiss  me  just  now?"  and  he  pointed  to  the 
spot  upon  his  forehead. 

Marian  nodded,  for  she  could  not  speak,  and  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  Marian  kissed  me  there,  too  !  Little  Marian,  who 
went  away,  and  it  has  burned  and  burned  into  my 
veins  until  it  set  my  brain  on  fire.  Nobody  has  kissed 
me  since,  but  Alice.  Did  you  know  Alice,  girl  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Marian,  keen  disappointment  swell- 
ing within  her  bosom  and  forcing  the  great  tears  from 
her  eyes. 

She  had  almost  believed  he  would  recognize  her, 
hut  he  did  not;  and  sinking  down  by  his  side,  she  bur- 
ied her  face  in  the  bed  clothes,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  Don't  cry,  little  girl,"  he  said,  evidently  disturbed  ' 
at  the  sight  of  her  tears.      "  I  cried  when  I  thought 
Marian  was  dead,  but  that  seems  so  long  ago." 

u  Oh  Frederic — "  and  forgetful  of  everything,  Ma- 
rian sprang  to  her  feet.  "Oh,  Frederic,  is  it  true  I 
Did  you  cry  for  me  ?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  own  name  the  sick  man  looked 


182  THE   FEVER. 

| 

bewildered,  while  reason  seemed  straggling  again  to 
assert  its  rights,  and  penetrate  the  misty  fog  by  which 
it  was  enveloped.  Very  earnestly  he  looked  at  the 
young  girl,  who  returned  his  gaze  with  one  in  which 
was  concentrated  all  the  yearning  love  and  tenderness, 
she  had  cherished  for  him  so  long. 

"  Are  you  Marian?"  he  asked,  and  in  an  instant  the 
excited  girl  wound  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  lay- 
ing her  cheek  against  his  own,  replied: 

"  Yes,  Frederic  yes.  Don't  you  know  me,  your 
poor  lost  Marian  ?" 

Very  caressingly  he  passed  his  hand  over  her  short 
silken  curls — pushed  them  back  from  her  forehead — 
examined  them  more  closely,  and  then  whispered 
mournfully, 

"  No,  you  are  not  Marian.  This  is  not  her  hair.  But 
I  like  you,"  he  continued,  as  he  felt  her  tears  drop  on 
his  face ;  "  and  I  wish  you  to  stay  with  me,  and  when 
the  pain  comes  back  charm  it  away  with  your  soft 
hands.  They  are  little  hands,"  and  he  took  them  be- 
tween his  own,  "  but  not  so  small  as  Marian's  were 
when  I  held  one  in  my  hand  and  promised  I  would 
love  her.  It  seemed  like  some  tiny  rose  leaf,  and  I 
could  have  crushed  it  easily,  but  I  did  not ;  I  only 
crushed  her  heart,  and  she  fled  from  me  forever,  for 
'twas  a  lie  I  told  her,"  and  his  voice  sunk  to  a  lower 
tone.  "I  didn't  love  her  then — I  don't  know  as  I 
love  her  now,  for  Isabel  is  eo  beautiful.  Did  you  ever 
see  Isabel,  girl?" 

"  Oh,  Frederic,"  groaned  Marian,  and  wresting  her 
hands  from  his  gaasp,  she  tottered  to  a  chair,  while  he 
looked  after  her  wistfully. 

"  Will  she  go  away  ?"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Burt.  "  Will 
she  leave  me  alone,  when  she  knows  Alice  is  not  here 
nor  Isabel  ?  I  wish  Isabel  would  come,  don't  you  ?" 

There  was  another  moan  of  anguish,  and,  rolling  his 
bright  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  arm  chair,  the  poor 
man  whispered  : 

*;  Hark  !  that's  the  sound  I  heard  the  niorht  Marian 


TUE   FEVER.  183 

• 

went  away  !  I  thought  then  'twas  the  wind,  "but  I  knew 
afterwards  that  it  was  she,  when  her  soul  parted  with 
her  body,  and  it's  followed  me  ever  since.  There  is  not 
a  spot  at  Redstone  Hall  that  is  not  haunted  with  that 
cry.  I've  heard  it  at  midnight,  at  noon-day— in  the 
storm  and  in  the  rushing  river — where  we  thought  she 
was  buried.  All  but  Alice — she  knew'  she  wasn't, 
and  she  sent  me  here  to  look.  She  don't  like  Isabel,, 
and  is  afraid  I'll  marry  her.  Maybe  I  shall,  sometime  I 
Who  knows  ?" 

And  he  laughed  in  delirious  glee. 

"  Heaven  keep  me,  too,  from  going  mad?"  cried  Ma- 
rian. "  Oh  !  why  did  I  come  here  ?" 

"I  told  you  not  to  all  the  time,"  was  Mrs.  Burt's 
consolatory  remark ;  which,  however  was  lost  on  Ma- 
rian, who,  seizing  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  rushed  from 
the  room,  unmindful  of  the  out-stretched  arms  which 
seemed  imploring  her' to  stay. 

The  fresh  morning  air  revived  her  fainting  strength, 
but  did  not  cool  the  feverish  agony  at  her  heart,  and 
she  sped  onward,  until  she  reached  her  home,-  where 
she  surprised  Ben  at  his  solitary  breakfast,  which  he 
had  prepared  himself. 

"  Oh  I  Ben,  Ben !"  she  cried,  coming  so  suddenly 
upon  him  that  he  upset  the  coffee-pot  into  which  he 
was  pouring  some  hot  water.  "  Would  it  be  wicked 
for  you  to  kill  me  dead,  or  for  me  to  kill  myself?" 

"  What's  to  pay  now?"  asked  Ben,  using  the  skirt 
of  his  coat  for  a  holder  in  picking  up  the  steaming 
coffee-pot. 

Very  hastily  Marian  related  her  adventures  in  the 
sick  room,  telling  how  Frederic  had  talked  of  marry- 
ing Isabel  before  her  very  face. 

"Crazy  as  a  loon,"  returned  Ben.  "I  shouldn't 
think  n6thin'  of  that.  You  say  he  talked  as  though  he 
thought  you  was  dead,  and  of  course  he  don't  know 
what  he's  sayin'.  Have  they  writ  to  his  folks  ?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  Marian,  who  had  made  a  similar 
inquiry  of  Mrs  Burt.  "They  directed  a  letter  to 


181  THE   FEVER. 

* 

*  Frederic  Raymond's  friends,  Franklin  County,  Ken- 
tucky,' but  that  may  not  reach  them  in  along  time.'' 

u  Wouldn't  it  be  a  Christian  act,"  returned  Ben  "for 
us,  who  know  jest  who  he  is,  to  telegraph  to  that  crit- 
ter, and  have  her  come  ?  By  all  accounts  he  wants  to 
see  her,  and  it  may  do  him  good." 

Marian  felt  that  it  would  be  right,  and,  though  it 
cost  her  a  pang,  she  said,  at  last: 

"  Yes,  Ben,  you  may  telegraph  ;  but  what  name  will 
you  append  ?" 

"Benjamin  Butterworth,  of  course,"  he  replied. 
"  They'll  remember  the  peddler,  and  think  it  nateral 
I  should  feel  an  interest."  And  leaving  Marian  to 
take  charge  of  the  breakfast  table,  he  started  for  the 
office. 

Meantime  the  sick  room  was  the  scene  of  much  ex- 
citement-—Frederic  raving  furiously,  and- asking  for 
"  the  girl  with  the  soft  hands  and  silken  hair."  Some- 
times he  called  her  Marian,  and  begged  of  them  to 
bring  her  back,  promising  not  to  make  her  cry  again. 

"  There  is  a  mystery  connected  with  tliis  Marian  he 
talks  so  much  about,"  said  the  physician,  who  was 
present,  "  and  he  seems  to  fancy  a  resemblance  between 
her  and  the  girl  who  left  here  this  morning.  What 
may  1  call  her  na*ine  £" 

'•  Marian,  my  daughter,"  came  involuntarily  from 
Mrs.  Burt,  whose  mental  rejoinder  was,  "  God  forgive 
me  for  that  lie,  if  it  was  one.  Names  and  things  is 
get  tin'  so  'twisted  up  that  it  takes  more  than  me  to 
straighten  'em  1" 

"Well,  then,"  continued  the  physician,  "suppose 
jou  send  for  her.  It  will  never  do  tor  him  to  gee  so 
excited,  lie  is  wearing  out  too  fast." 

"  1  will  go  for  her  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Burt,  who 
fancied  some  persuasion  might  be  necessary  ere  Ma- 
rian couid  be  induced  to  reiurn. 

But  she  was  mistaken,  tor  when  told  that  Frederic's 
life  depended  upon  his  being  kept  quiet,  and  his  being 
kept  quiet  depended  upon  her  presence,  Ma.ri-an  con 


THE   FEVEE.  185 

Rented,  and  nerved  herself  to  hear  him  talk,  as  she 
knew  he  would,  of  her  rival. 

"  If  he  lives,  I  will  be  satisfied,"  she  thought,  "  even 
though  he  never  did  or  can  love  me,"  and  with  a 
strong,  brave  heart,  she  went  back  again  to  the  sick 
man,  who  welcomed  her  joyfully,  and  folding  his  fee- 
ble arms  around  her  neck,  stroked  again  her  hair,  as 
he  said,  "You  will  not  leave  me,  Marian,  till  Isabel  is 
here.  Then  you  may  go — back  to  the  grave  I  cannot 
find,  and  we  will  go  home  together." 

Marian  could  not  answer  him,  neither  was  it  neces- 
sary that  she  should.  He  was  satisfied  to  have  her 
there,  and  with  her  sitting  at.  his  side,  and  holding  his 
hand  in  hers,  he  became  as  gentle  as  a  child.  Occas- 
ionally he  c:ilied  her  "  little  girl,"  but  oftener  "  Ma- 
rian," and  when  he  said  that  name,  he  always  smooth- 
ed her  hair,  as  if  he  pitied  her,  and  knew  he  had  done 
her  a  wron^.  And  Marian  felt  each  day  more  and 
more  that  the  wound  she  hoped  had  partly  healed  was 
bleeding  afresh  with  a  new  pain,  fur  while  he  talked 
of  Marian  as  a  mother  talks  of  an  unfortunate  child, 
he  spoke  of  Isabel  with  all  a  lover's  pride,  and  each 
word  was  a  dagger  to  the  heart  of  the  patient  watcher, 
who  sat  beside  him  day  and  night,  until  her  eyes  were 
heavy,  and  her  cheeks  were  pale  with  her  unbroken 
vigils. 

•'  Do  you  then  love  this  Isabel  so  much  ?"  she  said 
to  him  one  day,  and  sinking  his  voice  to  a  whisper  he 
replied,  "  Yes,  and  I  love  you,  too,  though  not  like 
her,  because  1  loved  her  n'rst." 

"  And  Marian  ?"  questioned  the  young  girl,  "  Don't 
you  love  her  ?" 

Oh,  how  eagerly  she  waited  for  the  answer,  which, 
when  it  came  almost  broke  her  heart. 

"  Not  as  I  ought  to — not  as  I  have  prayed  that  I 
might,  and  not  as  I  should,  perhaps,  if  she  hadn't  been 
to  me  what  she  is.  Poor  child,"  he  continued,  brushing 
away  the  tears  which  rolled  like  rain  down  Marian's 
cheeks,  "  poor  child,  are  you  crying  for  Marian  3" 


186  THE    FEVER. 

"  Yes — -yes,  for  Marian^-for  poor  heart-broken  me  ;M 
and  the  wretched  girl  buried  her  face  in  the  pillow 
beside  him,  for  he  held  her  firmly  by  the  wrist,  and 
she  could  not  get  away. 

In  this  manner  several  days  went  by,  and  over  the. 
intellect  so  obscured  there  shone  no  ray  01  reason, 
while  the  girlish  face  grew  whiter  and  whiter  each 
morning  light,  and  at  last  the  physician  said  that  she 
must  rest,  or  her  strength  would  be  exhausted. 

'•  Let  me  stay  a  little  longer,"  she  pleaded — "stay  at 
least  until  Miss  Huntington  arrives." 

"  Miss  who?"  asked  the  doctor.  "  Do  you  then  know 
his  family  ?'' 

"  A  friend  of  mine  knows  them,"  answered  Marian, 
a  deep  flush  stealing  over  her  cheek. 

"  I  hope,  thenj  they  will  reward  you  well,"  contin- 
ued the  physician.  "  The  -young  man  would  have 
died  but  for  you.  It  is  remarkable  what  control  you 
have  over  him." 

But  Marian  wished  for  no  reward.  It  was  sufficient 
for  her  to  know  tiiat  she  had  been  instrumental  in  sav- 
ing his  life,  even  though  she  had  saved  it  for  Isabel.  The 
physician  said  that  Frederic  was  better,  and  that  after- 
noon, seated  in  the  large  arm-chair,  she  fell  into  a 
refreshing  sleep,  from  which  she  Mras  finally  aroused 
by  Mrs.  I3urt,  who  bending  over  her,  whispered  in  her 
ear: 

"  Wake  up.  She's  come — she's  here — Miss  Hunt- 
ington !"  i 

Tuere  was  magic  in  that  name,  and  it  roused  the 
sleeping  girl  at  once,  sending  a  quiver  of  pain  through 
her  heart,  for  her  post  she  knew  was  to  be  given  to  an- 
other. Not  both  of  them  could  watch  by  Frederic, 
and  she,  who  in  all  the  world  had  the  best  right  to 
stay,  must  go;  but  not  until  she  had  looked  upon  her 
rival  and  had  seen  once  the  face  which  Frederic  called 
so  beautiful.  This  done,  she  would  go  away  and  die,  if 
it  were  possible,  and  stand  no  longer  between  Frederic 
and  the  bride  he  so  much  desired.  She  did  not  under- 


»        •         THE    FEVER.  1ST 

etand  why  he  had  so  often  spoken  of  herself  as  being 
dead,  when  he  knew  that  she  was  not.  It  was  a  vagary 
of  his  brain,  she  said — lie  had  had  many  since  she  came 
t-here.  and  she  hoped  he  would  sometimes  talk  of  her 
to  Isabel,  just  as  he  had  talked  of  Isabel  to  her.  There 
was  a  hurried  consultation  between  herself  and  Mrs. 
Burt,  with  regard  to  their  future  proceedings,  and  it 
was  finally  decided  that  the  latter  should  remain  a  few 
days  longer,  and  so  report  the  progress  of  affairs  to 
Marian,  who,  of  course,  must  go  away.  This  arrange- 
ment being  made  they  sat  down  and  rather  impa- 
tiently waited  for  the  coming  of  Isabel,  who  was  in 
her  room  resting  atfer  her  tiresome  journey. 

"Oh  how  can  she  wait  so  long'?"  thought  Marian, 
glancing  at  Frederic,  who  was  sleeping  now  more 
quietly  than  he  had  done  before  for  a  longtime. 

She  did  not  know  Isabel  Huntington.  and  she  could  not 
begin  to  guess  how  thoroughly  selfish  she  was,  nor  how 
that  selfishness  was  manifest  in  every  movement.  The 
letter,  which  at  last  had  gone  to  Frankfort,  was  re- 
ceived the  same  day  with  the  telegram,  and  as  a  natu- 
ral consequence,  threw  the  inmates  of  Redstone  Hall 
into  great  excitement.  Particularly  was  this  the  case 
with  Isabel,  who  unmindful  of  everything,  wrang  her 
hands  despairingly,  crying  out,  "  Oh !  what  shall  I  do 
if  he  dies?" 

"  Do  I"  repeated  Dinah,  forgetting  her  own  grief  in 
her  disgust.  "  For  the  Lord's  sake,  can't  you  do 
what  you  allns  did  ?  Go  back  whar  you  come  from, 
you  and  your  mother,  in  course." 

Isabel  deigned  no  reply  to  this  remark,  but  hurried 
to  her  chamber,  where  she  commenced  the  packing  of 
her  trunk 

"  Wouldn't  it  look  better  for  me  to  go?"  suggested 
Mrs.  Huntington,  and  Isabel  answered : 

"  Certainly  not,  the  telegram  was  directed  to  me.  No 
one  knows  me  in  New  York,  and  I  don't  care  what 
folks  say  here.  It'  he  lives  I  shall  be  his  wife,  of  course, 
else  why  should  he  send  for  me.  It's  perfectly  natural 


THE   FEVER. 

that  I  should  go."  And  thinking  to  herself  that  she 
would  rather  Frederic  should  die  than  to  live  for  an- 
other, she  completed  her  hasty  preparations,  and  waa 
on  her  way  to  the  depot  before  the  household  had 
time  to  realize  what  they  were  doing. 

In  passing  the  house  of  Lawyer  Gibson  she  con'l  " 
not  forbear  stopping  a  moment  to  communicate  the  sad 
news  to  her  particular  friend,  who,  while  condoling 
with  her,  thought  to  herself,  "  He  does  care  more  for 
her  than  I  supposed,  OT  he  would  not  have  not  sent  for 
her." 

"  When  will  you  come  back  ?"  she  asked,  and  Isabel 
replied,  "  Not  until  he  is  better  or  worse.'  Oh,  Agnes,' 
what  if  he  should  die.  Imagine  Mr.  Rivers  at  the 
point  of  death  and  yon  will  know  just  how  I  feel." 

"Certainly,  very,  indeed,"  was  the  meaningless  an- 
swer of  Agnes,  who,  as  the  day  of  her  bridal  drew  near, 
began  to  fancy  that  she  might  be  easily  consoled  in  case 
anything  should  come  between  herself  and  the  white 
haired  Floridan.  "  Perhaps  you  will  be  married  be- 
fore you  return,"  she  suggested,  and  Isabel,  who  had 
thought  of  the  same  possibility,  replied,  "Don't,  pray, 
speak  of  such  a  thing — it  seems  terrible  when  Frederic 
is  so  sick." 

"  You  won't  cotch  the  cars  if  you  ain't  keerful," 
chimed  in  Uncle  Phil,  and  kissing  each  other  a  most 
aifectionate  good-by,  the  young  ladies  parted,  Agnes 
thinking  to  herself,  "  I  reckon  I  wouldn't  go  off  to 
New  York  after  a  man  who  hadn't  really  proposed — • 
but  then  it's  just  like  her,"  while  Isabel's  mental  com- 
ment was,  "It's  time  Agnes  was  married,  for  she's 
real  ly  beginning  to  look  old  ;  I  wouldn't  have  my  grand- 
father though  I" 

So  much  for  girlish  friendships! 

Distressed  and  anxious  as  Isabel  seemed,  it  was  no 
part  of  her  intention  to  travel  nights,  tor  that  would 
give  her  a  sallow,  jaded  look  ;  so  she  made  the  journey 
leisurely,  and  even  after  her  arrival,  took  time  to  rest 
and  beautify  ere  presenting  herself  to  Frederic*  She 


THE   FEVER.  189 

had  ascertained  that  he  was  better,  and  had  the  best 
of  care,  so  she  remained  quietly  in  her  chamber  an 
hour  or  so,  and  it  was  not  until  after  dark  that  she 
bade  the  servant  show  her  the  way  to  the  sick  room. 

"  I  will  tell  them  you  are  coming,"  suggested  the 
polite  attendant,  and,  goingwon  before  her,  he.  said  to 
Mrs.  Burt  that  "  Miss  Huntington  would  like  to  come 
in." 

In  the  farthest  corner  in  the  room,  where  the  shad- 
ows were  the  deepest,  and  where  she  would  be  the 
least  observed,  sat  Marian,  her  hands  clasped  tightly 
together,  her  head  bent  forward,  and  her  eyes  fixed  in- 
tently upon  the  door  through  which  her  rival  would 
enter.  Frederic  was  awake,  and,  missing  her  from 
her  post,  was  about  asking  for  her,  when  Isabel  ap- 
peared, looking  so  fresh,  so  glowing,  so  beautiful,  that 
for  an  instant  Marian  forgot  everything  in  her  admira- 
tion of  the  queenly  creature,  who,  bowing  civilly  to 
Mrs.  Burt,  glided  to  the  bedside,  and  sank  upon  her 
knees,  gracefully — very  gracefully — just  as  she  had 
done  at  a  private  rehearsal  in  her  own  room!  Tighter 
the  little  hands  were  clasped  together,  and  the  head 
which  had  dropped  before  was  erect  now,  as  Marian 
watched  eagerly  for  what  would  follow  next. 

"  Dear  Frederic,"  said  Isabel,  and  over  the  white 
face  in  the  arm-chair  the  hot  blood  rushed  in  torrents 
for  it  seemed  almost  an  insult  to  hear  him  thus  ad- 
dressed— "  Dear  Frederic,  do  you  know  me  ?  I  am  Is- 
abel :"  arid,  unmindful  of  Mrs.  Burt,  or  yet  of  the  mo- 
tionless iigure  sitting  near,  she  kissed  his  burning  fore- 
head, and  said  again  ;  "  Do  you  know  me  ?" 

The  nails  were  marking  dark  rings  now  in  the  tender 
flesh,  while  the  blue  eyes  flashed  until  they  grew  al- 
most as  black  as  Isabel's,  and  still  Marian  did  not 
move.  She  could  not,  until  she  heard  what  answer 
would  be  given.  As  the  physician  bad  predicted, 
Frederic  was  better  since  his  refreshing  sleep,  and 
through  the  misty  vail  enshrouding  his  reason  a  glim- 
mer of  light  was  shining.  The  voice  was  a  familial 


190  THE   FEVER. 

one,  and  though  it  partly  bewildered  him,  he  knew 
who  it  was  that  bent  so  fondly  over  him.  It  was  some- 
body from  home,  and  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure  akin  to 
what  one  feels  when  meeting  a  fellow  countryman  far 
away  on  a  foreign  shore,  he  twined  his  arms  around  her 
neck,  artfl  said  to  her  joyfully  :  "You  are  Isabel,  and 
you've  come  to  make  me  well." 

Isabel  was  about  to  speak  again,  when  a  low  sob 
startled  her,  and,  turning  in  the  direction  from  whence 
it  came,  she  met  a  fierce,  burning  gaze  which  riveted 
her  as  by  some  magnetism  to  the  spot,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  two  looked  intently  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Isabel  and  Marian,  the  one  stamping  indelibly  upon 
her  memory  the  lineaments  of  a  face  which  had  stolen 
and  kept  a  heart  which  should  have  been  her  own, 
while  the  other  wondered  much  at  the  strange  white 
face  which  even  through  the  darkness  seemed  quiver- 
ing with  pain. 

Purposely  Mrs.  Burt  stepped  between  them,  and 
thus  the  spell  was  broken,  Isabel  turning  again  to 
Frederic,  while  Marian,  unlocking  her  stiff  finger**, 
grasped  her  bonnet  and  glided  from  the  room  so  si- 
lently that  Isabel  knew  not  she  was  gone  until  she 
turned  her  head  and  found  the  chair  empty. 

"  Who  was  that  ?"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Burt—"  that 
young  girl  who  just  went  out?" 

"  My  daughter,*'  answered  Mrs.  Burt,  again  men- 
tally asking  forgiveness  for  the  falsehood  told,  and 
thinking  to  herself,  "  Mercy  knows  it  ain't  my  nater 
to  lie,  but  when  a  body  gets  mixed  up  in  such  a  scrape 
as  this,  I'd  like  to  see  'em  help  it !" 

After  the  first  lucid  interval,  Frederic  relapsed  again 
into  his  former  delirious  mood,  but  did  not  ask  for  Ma- 
rian. He  seemed  satisfied  that  Isabel  was  there,  and 
he  fell  asleep  again,  resting  so  quietly  that  when  it 
was  eleven  Isabel  arose  and  said,  "  He  is  doing  so 
well  I  believe  I  will  retire.  I  never  sat  up  with  a 
sick  person  in  my  life,  aiid  should  be  very  little  assis- 


THE   FEVER.  191 

tnnco  to  you.     That  daughter  of  yours  is  somewhere 
around,  I  suppose,  and  will  come  if  \ou  need  heip." 

Mrs.  Burt  nodded,  thinking  how  different  was  this 
conduct  from  that  of  the  unselfish  Marian,  who  had 
watched  night  after  night  without  giving  herself  the 
rest  she  absolutely  needed.  Isabel,  on  the  contrary, 
had  no  idea  of  impairing  her  beauty,  or  bringing  dis- 
comfort to  herself  by  spending  many  hours  at  a  time 
in  that  close,  unwholesome  atmosphere,  and  while  Ma- 
rian in  her  humble  apartment  was  weeping  bitterly, 
she  was  dreaming  of  returning  to  Kentucky  as  a  bride. 
Frederic  could  scarcely  do  less  than  reward  her  kind- 
ness by  marrying  her  as  soon  as  he  was  able.  She 
could  take  care  of  him  so  much  better,  she  thoughr, 
and  ere  she  fell  asleep  she  had  arranged  it  all  in  her 
oWn  mind,  and  had  fancied  her  mother's  surprise  at 
receiving  a  letter  signed  by  her  new  name,  "  Isabel  H. 
Raymond,"  She  would  retain  the  "  H,"  she  said.  She 
al\va}Ts  liked  to  see  it,  and  she  hoped  A^nes  Gibson,  if 
she  persisted  in  that  foolish  fancy  of  the  fish-knife, 
would  have  it  marked  in  this  way  ! 

It  was  long  after  daylight  ere  she  awoke,  and  when 
she  did  her  first  thought  was  of  her  pleasant  dream 
and  her  second  of  the  girl  she  had  seen  the  night  be- 
fore. "  How  white  she  was,"  she  said,  as  she  made 
her  elaborate  toile*,  u  and  how  those  eyes  of  hers 
glared  at  me,  as  if  I  had  no  business  here.  Maybe  she 
has  f alien  in  love  while  taking  care  of  him  ;"  and  Isa- 
bel laughed  aloud  at  the  very  idea  of  a  nursing 
woman's  daughter  being  in  love  with  the  fastidious 
Frederic !  Once  she  thought  of  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt, 
wondering  where  she  lived,  and  half  wishing  she  could 
find  her,  and,  herself  unknown,  could  question  her  of 
Marian. 

"  Maybe  this  Mrs.  Merton  knows  something  of  her," 
she  said,  and  thinking  she  would  ask  her  if  a  good  op- 
portunity should  occur,  she  gave  an  extra  brush  to  her 
glossy  hair,  locked  in  a  small  hand  mirror  to  see  that 
the  braids  at  the  back  of  her  head  were  right,  threw 


1?2  THE   FEVEK. 

open  her  wrapper  a  little  more  to  show  her  flounced 
cambric  skirt,  and  then  went  to  the  breakfast  room, 
where  three  attendants,  attracted  by  her  style  and  the 
prospect  of  a  fee,  bowed  obsequiously  and  asked  what 
she  would  have.  This  occupied  nearly  another  hour, 
and  it  was  almost  ten  ere  she  presented  herself  to  Mrs. 
Burt,  who  was  growing  very  faint  and  weary. 

At  the  physicain's  request  more  light  had  been  ad 
mitted  into  the  room,  and  Frederic,  who  was  much 
better  this  morning,  recognized  Isabel  at  once.  He 
bad  a  faint  remembrance  of  having  seen  her  the  pre- 
vious night,  but  it  needed  Mrs.  Burt's  assertion  to  con- 
confirm  his  conjecture,  and  he  greeted  her  now  as  if 
meeting  her  for  the  first  time.  Many  questions  he  asked 
of  the  people  at  home,  and  how  they  had  learned  of  his 
illness. 

"  We  received  a  letter  and  a  telegram  both,"  said  Is- 
abel, continuing,  "You  remember  that  booby  peddler 
who  sold  Alice  the  bracelet  and  frightened  the  negroes 
so  ?  Well,  he  must  have  ti-legraphed,  for  his  name  was 
signed  to  the  dispatch, '  Benjamin  Butterworth.' ' 

Mrs.  Burt  was  7ery  much  occupied  with  something 
near  the  table,  and  Frederic  did  not  notice  her  confus- 
ion as  he  replied,  "  He  was  a  kind-hearted  man,  I 
thought,  but  I  wonder  how  he  heard  of  my  illness,  and 
where  he  is  now.  Mrs.  Merton,  has  a  certain  Ben  But- 
terworth inquired  for  me  since  I  was  sick?" 

"  I  know  nobody  by  that  name,"  returned  Mrs.  Burt, 
and  without  stopping  to  think  that  her  question  might 
lead  to  some  inquiries  from  Frederic,  Isabel  rejoined, 
*'  Well,  do  you  l<now  a  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt !"  repeated  Frederic,  as  if  trying 
to  recall  something  far  back  in  the  past,  while  the  lady 
•in  question  started  so  suddenly  as  to  drop  the  cup  of 
hot  water  she  held  m  her  hand. 

Stooging  down  to  pick  up  the  cup,  she  said  some- 
thing about  its  having  burned  her,  and  added,  "I  ain't 
much  acquainted  in  the  city,  and  never  know  my  next 
door  neighbors." 


THE   FEYER.  193 

u  Mrs.  D;miel  Burt,"  Frederic  said  again,  "  I  have 
gnrely  heard  that  name  before.  Who  is  she,  Isabel  ?" 

It  was  Isabel's  turn  now  to  answer  evasively  ;  but 
being  more  accustomed  to  dissimulate  than  her  com- 
panion, she  replied,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  "You 
may  have  heard  mother  speak  of  her  in  New  Haven. 
I  used  to  know  her  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  I  be- 
lieve she  lives  in  New  York.  She  was  a  very  good, 
but  common  kind  of  woman,  and  one  witt  whom  I 
should  not  care  to  associate,  though  mother,  I  dare  say, 
would  be  glad  to  hear  from  her.'-' 

"The  impudent  trollop,"  muttered  Mrs.  Burt,  mar- 
velling at  the  conversation,  and  wondering  which  was 
trying  to  deceive  the  other,  Frederic  or  Isabel.  "The 
former  couldn't  hoodwink  her,"  she  said,  "  even  if  lie 
did  Isabel.  She  understood  it  all,  and  he  knew  who 
Mrs.  Daniel  Burt  was  just  as  well  as  she  did,  for  even 
if  he  had  forgotten  that  she  once  lived  with  his  father, 
Marian's  letter  had  refreshed  Ids  memory,  and  he  was 
only 'putting  on '  for  the  sake  of  misleading  Isabel. 
But  where  in  the  world  did  that  jade  know  her!"  that 
was  a  puzzle,  and  settling  it  in  her  own  mind  that 
there  were  two  of  the  same  name,  she  left  the  room  and 
went  down  to  her  breakfast. 

During  the  day  not  a  word  was  said  of  Marian.  Isa- 
bel was  evidently  too  much  pleased  with  Frederic's  de- 
light at  seeing  her  to  think  of  anything  else,  while  Mrs. 
Burt  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  speak  of  her.  Fred- 
eric, too,  for  a  time  had  forgotten  her,  but  as  the  day 
drew  near  its  close,  he  relapsed  into  a  thoughtful  mood, 
replying  to  Isabel's  frequent  remarks  either  in  monosyl- 
lables or  not  at  all.  As  the  darkness  increased  he 
seemed  to  be  listening  intently,  and  when  a  step  was 
heard  upon  the  stairs  or  in  the  hall  without,  his  face 
would  light  up  with  eager  expectation  and  then  be  as 
suddenly  overcast  as  the  footstep  passed  his  door.  Grad- 
ually there  was  creeping  into  his  mind  a  vague  remem- 
brance of  something  or  somebody,  which  for  many 
days  had  been  there  with  him,  gliding  so  noiselessly 

9 


194:  THE   FEVEE. 

about  the  room  that  he  had  almost  fancied  it  trod  wpon 
the  air,  and  he  could  scarcely  tell  whether  it  were  a  spirit 
or  a  human  being  like  himself.  Little  by  little  the 
outline  so  dimly  discerned  assumed  a  form,  and  the 
form  was  that  of  a  young  girl — a  very  fair  young 
girl,  with  sweet  blue  eyes,  and  soft,  baby  hands, 
which  had  held  his  aching  head  and  smoothed  his  tan- 
gled hair,  oh,  so  many  times.  Her  voice  too,  was  low 
and  gentle,  and  reminding  him  of  some  sad  strain  of 
music  heard  long,  long  ago.  It  seemed  to  him,  too,  that 
she  called  him  Frederic,  dropping  hot  tears  upon  his 
face.  But  where  was  she  now?  Why  did't  she  come 
again,  and  who  was  she — that  little  blue-eyed  girl  ? 
For  a  time  the  vision  faded  and  all  was  contused 
again,  but  the  reality  came  back  ere  long,  and  listen- 
ing eagerly  for  something  which  never  came,  he 
thought  and  thought  until  great  drops  of  sweat  stood 
thickly  upon  his  brow ;  and  Isabel,  wiping  them  away, 
became  alarmed  at  the  wildness  of  his  eye  and  the 
rapid  boating  of  his  pulse.  A  powerful  anodyne  was 
adminstered,  and  he  slept  at  last  a  fitful  feverish  sleep, 
which  however,  did  him  good,  and  in  the  morning  he 
was  better  than  he. had  been  before. 

Mrs.  Burt,  who  had  watched  him  carefully,  knew 
that  the  danger  was  past,  and  that  afternoon  she  left 
him  with  Isabel,  while  she  went  home,  where  she  found 
Marian  seriously  ill,  with  Ben  taking  care  of  her  in  his 
kind  but  awkward  manner. 

"  Did  Frederic  remember  me  ?  Does  he  know  I 
have  been  there?"  were  Marian's  first  questions,  and 
when  Mrs.  Buxt  replied  in  the  negative,  she  turned 
away  whispering,  mournfully,  "It  is  just  as  well." 

"  He  is  doing  well,"  said  Mrs.  Burt,  "  and  as  you 
need  me  more  than  he  does  now,  I  shall  come  home 
and  let  that  Isabel  take  care  of  him.  It  wont  hur't  her 
any,  the  jade.  She  can  telegraph  for  her  mother  if 
she  chooses." 

Accordingly,  she  returned  to  the  sick-room,  where 
she  found  Frederic  asleep  ahd  Isabel  reading  a  novel. 


THE   FEVEB.  195 

To  her  announcement  of  leaving,  the  latter  made  no 
objection.  She  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise,  for, 
as  Frederic  grew  stronger,  the  presence  of  a  third  per- 
son, and  a  stranger,  too,  might  be  disagreeable.  She 
would  telegraph  for  her  mother,  of  course,  as  she  did 
not  think  it  quite  proper  to  stay  there  alone.  But  her 
mother  was  under  her  control ;  she  could  dispose  of  her 
at  any  time,  so  she  merely  stopped  her  reading  long 
enough  to  say,  "  Very  well,  you  can  go  if  you  like. 
How  much  is  your  charge  ?" 

*Mr«5.  Burt  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  her;  and  Isabel, 
who  had  taken  care  of  Frederic's  purse,  paid  her,  and 
then  resumed  her  book,  while  Mrs.  Burt,  with  a  fare- 
well glance  at  her  patient,  went  from  the  room,  Mrith- 
out  a  word  of  explanation  as  to  where  she  could  be 
found  in  case  they  wished  to  find  her. 

It  was  dark  when  Frederic  awoke,  and  it  was  so 
still  around  him  that  he  believed  himself  alone. 

"  They  have  all  left  me,"  he  said  ;  "  Mrs.  Merton, 
Isabel,  and  that  other  one,  that  being  of  mystery — 
who  was  she — who  could  she  have  been?"  and  shut- 
ting his  eyes,  he  tried  to  bring  her  before  him  just  as 
he  had  often  seen  her  bending  o'er  his  pillow. 

He  knew  now  that  it  was  not  a  phantom  of  his 
brain,  but  a -reality.  There  had  been  a  young  girl 
there,  and  when  the  world  without  was  darkest,  and 
he  was  drifting  far  down  the  river  of  death,  her  voice 
had  called  him  back,  and  her  hands  had  held  him 
up  so  that  he  did  not  sink  in  rlie  deep,-  angry  waters. 
There  were  tears  many  times  upon  her  face,  he  re- 
membered, and  once  he  had  wiped  them  away,  asking 
why  she  cried.  It  was  a  pretty  face,  he  said,  a  very 
pretty  face,  and  the  sunny  eyes  of  blue  seemed  shining 
on  him  even  now,  while  the  memory  of  her  gentle  acts 
was  very,  very  sweet,  thrilling  him  with  an  undefined 
emotion,  and  awakening  within  his  bosom  a  germ  of 
the  undying  love  he  was  yet  to  feel  for  the  mysterious 
etranger.  She  had  called  him  Frederic,  too,  while  he 
had  called  her  Marian.  She  had  answered  to  that 


196  THE   FKVER. 

came,  she  asked  him  of  Isabel,  and — oh,  Heaven!"  he 
cried,  starting  quickly  and  clasping  both  hands  upon 
his  head.  Like  a  thunderbolt  it  burst  upon  him,  and 
for  an  instant  his  brain  seemed  all  on  fire.  "  It  was 
Marian  ! — it  was  Marian  !"  he  essayed  to  say,  but  his 
lips  refused  to  move,  and  when  Isabel,  startled  by  hia 
sadden  movement,  struck  a  light  and  came  to  his  bed-  > 
side,  she  saw  that  he  had  fainted  ! 

In  great  alarm  she  summoned  help,  begging  of  thoso 
who  came  to  go  at  once  for  Mrs.  Merton.  But  no  one 
knew  of  the  woman's  place  of  residence,  and  as  she 
had  failed  to  inquire,  it  was  a  hopeless  matter.  Slowly 
Frederic  came  back*  to  consciousness,  and  when  he  was 
again  alone  with  Isabel  he  said  to  her,  "  Where  is  that 
woman  who  took  care  of  me?" 

"  She  is  gone,"  said  Isabel.     "  Gone  to  her  home." 

"  Gone,  lie  repeated.  "  When  did  she  go,  and 
why  ?" 

Isabel  told  him  the  particulars  of  Mrs.  Burt's  going, 
and  he  continued : 

"  Was  there  no  one  else  here  when  you  came  ?  No 
young  girl  witli  soft  blue  eyes?"  and  he  looked  eag- 
erly at  her. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "There  was  a  queer  acting 
thing  sitting  in  the  arm-chair  the  night  1  first  came 
in — " 

"  Who  was  she,  and  where  is  she  now?"  he  asked  . 
and  Isabel  answered,  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  wher ' 
she  is,  for  she  vanished  like  a  ghost." 

"Yes,  ye>;  but  who  was  she  ?  Did  she  have  no  name  ?" 
and  Frederic  clutched  Isabel's  arm  nervously. 

"  Mrs.  Merton  told  me  it  was  her  daughter — that 
is  all  I  know,"  said  Isabel ;  and  in  a  tone  of  disap- 
pointment he  continued: 

"Will  you  tell  me  just  how  she  looked,  and  how 
she  acted  when  you  first  saw  her?" 

"  One  would  suppose  you  deeply  interested  in  your 
nurse's  daughter;"  and  the  glittering  black  eyes 
flashed  scornfully  upon  Frederic,  who  replied  : 


THE   FEYER.  197 

"  I  am  interested,  for  she  saved  my  life.  Tell  me, 
won't  yon,  how  she  looked  ?" 

"  Well,  then,"  returned  Isahel  pettishly,  "  she  was 
about  fifteen,  I  think — certainly  not  older  than  that. 
Her  face  was  very  white,  with  big,  bine  eyes,  which 
glared  at  me  like  a  wild  beast's ;  and  what  is  queerer 
than  all,  she  actually  sobbed  when  I,  or  rather,  you 
kissed  me;  perhaps  you  have  forgotten  that  you 
did?" 

He  had  forgotten  it,  for  the  best  of  reasons,  but  he 
did  not  contradict  her,  so  intent  was  he  upon  listening 
to  her  story. 

"  I  had  not  observed  her  particularly  before;  but 
when  I  heard  that  sound  I  turned  to  look  at  her, 
while  she  stared  at  me  as  impudently  as  if  I  had  no 
business  here.  That  woman  stepped  between  us  pur- 
posely I  know,  for  she  seemed  excited  ;  and  when  I  saw 
the  arm-chair  again  the  girl  was  gone." 

Thus  far  everything,  except  the  probable  age,  had 
confirmed  his  suspicions  ;  Uut  there  was  one  question 
more — an  all-important  one — and  with  trembling  eag- 
erness he  asked : 

"  What  of  her  hair?      Did  you  notice  that  ?" 

"  It  was  brown,  I  think,"  said  Isabel — "  short  in 
her  neck  and  curly  round  her  forehead.  I  should  say 
her  hair  was  rather  handsome." 

With  a  sigh  of  disappointment  Frederic  turned  upon 
his  pillow,  saying  to  her : 

"That  will  do — I've  heard  enough." 

Isabel's  last  words  had  brought  back  to  his  mind 
something  which  he  had  forgotten  until  now — the 
girl's  hair  was  short,  and  he  remembered  distinctly 
twining  the  soft  rings  around  his  fingers.  They  were 
not  long,  red  curls,  like  those  described  by  Sally 
Green.  It  wasn't  Marian's  hair — it  wasn't  Marian  at 
all;  and  in  his  weakness  his  tears  dropped  silently 
upon  the  pillow,  for  the  disappointment  was  terrible. 
All  that  night  and  the  following  day  he  was  haunted 
with  thoughts  of  the  young  girl,  and  at  last,  determin 


198  THE    FEVER. 

ing  to  see  her  again  and  know  if  she  were  like  Marian, 
he  said  to  Isabel : 

"  Send  for  Mrs.  Merton.     I  wish  to  talk  with  her." 

"It  is  an  i m possibility,"  returned  Isabel :"  for, 
when  she  left  us,  I  carelessly  neglected  to  ask  where 
she  lived " 

"  Inquire  below,  then,"  persisted  Frederic.  "  Some- 
body will  certainly  know,  and  I  must  find  her." 

Isabel  complied  with  his  request,  and  soon  returned 
•with  the  information  that  no  one  knew  aught  of  Mrs. 
Merton's  whereabouts,  though  it  was  generally  be- 
lieved that  she  came  from  the  country,  and  at  the  time 
pf  coming  to  the  hotel  was  visiting  friends  in  the  city. 

"Find  her  friends,  then,"  continued  Frederic,  grow- 
ing more  and  more  excited  and  impatient. 

This, 'too,  was  impossible,  for  everything  pertaining 
to  Mrs.  Merton  was  mere  conjecture.  No  one  could 
tell  where  she  lived,  or  whither  she  had  gone ;  and 
the  sick  man  lamented  the  circumstance  so  often  that 
Isabel  more  than  once  lost  her  temper  entirely,  wonder- 
ing why  he  should  be  so  very  anxious  about  a  woman 
who  had  been  well  paid  for  her  services — "  yes,  more 
than  paid,  for  her  price  was  a  most  exorbitant  one." 

Meantime,  Mrs.  Huntington,  who,  on  the  receipt  of 
Isabel's  telegram,  had  started  immediately,  arrived, 
laden  with  trunks,  bandboxes,  and  bags,  for  the  old 
lady  was  rather  dressy,  and  fancied  a  large  hotel  a 

fx>d  place  to  show  her  new  clothes.  On  learning  thai 
rederic  was  very  much  better,  and  that  she  had  been 
sent  for  merely  on  the  score  of  propriety,  she  seemed 
somewhat  out  of  humor — "  Not  that  she  wanted  Fred- 
eric to  die,"  she  said,  "  and  she  was  glad  of  course  thpt 
he  was  getting  well,  but  she  didn't  like  to  be  scared 
the  way  she  was  ;  a  telegram  always  made  her  stomach 
troiuble  so  that  she  didn't  get  over  it  in  a  week ;  she  hud 
traveled  day  and  night  to  get  there,  and  didn't  know 
•  what  she  could  have  done  if  she  hadn't  met  Rudolph 
Me  Vicar  in  Cincinnati." 


THE   FEVEB.  199 

"  Rudolph  1"  exclaimed  Isabel.  "  Pray,  where  is  he 
now  ?" 

"  Here  in  this  very  hotel,"  returned  her  mother. 
"  He  came  with  me  all  the  way,  and  seemed  greatly 
interested  in  you,  asking  a  thousand  questions  about 
when  you  expected  to  be  married,  fcaid  he  supposed 
Frederic's  illness  would  postpone  it  awhile,  and  when 
I  told  him  you  wan't  even  engaged  as  I  knew  of, 
he  looked  disappointed.  I  believe  Rudolph  has  re- 
formed 1" 

"  The  wretch  !"  muttered  Isabel,  who  rightly  guessed 
that  Rudolph's  interest  was  only  feigned. 

He  had  heard  of  her  sudden  departure  for  ^ew 
York,  and  had  heard  also  (Agnes  Gibson  being  the" 
source  whence  the  information  came)  that  she  might, 
perhaps,  be  married  as  soon  as  Frederic  was  able  to  sit 
up.  Accordingly,  he  had  himself  started  northward, 
stumbling  upon  Mrs.  Huntington  in  Cincinnati,  and 
coming  with  her  to  New  York,  where  he' stopped  at 
the  same  hotel,  intending  to  remain  there  and  wait 
f.»r  the  result.  He  did  not  care  to  meet  Isabel  face  to 
face,  while.she  was  quite  as  anxious  to  avoid  an  inter- 
view with  him  ;  and  after  d  few  days  she- ceased  to  be 
troubled  about  him  at  all.  Frederic  absorbed  all  her 
thoughts,  he  appeared  so  differently  from  what  he 
used  to  do — talking  but  little  cither  to  herself  or  her 
mother,  and  lying  nearly  all  the  day  with  his  eyes 
shut,  though  she  knew  he  was  not  asleep ;  and  she 
tried  in  vain  to  fathom  the  subject  of.  his  reflections. 
But  he  guarded  that  secret  well,  and  day  after  day  he 
thought  on,  living  over  again  the  first  weeks  of  his 
sickuess  in  that  chamber,  until  at  last  the  conviction 
was  fixed  upon  his  mind  that,  spite  of  the  short  hair, 
spite  of  the  probable  age,  spite  of  the  story  about  Mrs. 
Mertor.'s  daughter,  or  yet  the  letter  from  Sarah  Green, 
that  young  girl  who  had  watched  with  him  so  long 
and  then  disappeared  so  mysteriously,  was  none  other 
than  Marian — his  wife.  He  did  not  shudder  now  when 
he  repeated  that  last  word  to  himself.  It  sounded 


200  THE   FEVER. 

pleasantly,  for  he  knew  it  was  connected  with  the 
sweet,  womanly  love  which  had  saved  him  from  death. 
The  brown  hair  which  Isabel  had  mentioned  he  re- 
jected as  an  impossibility.  It  had  undoubtedly  looked 
dark  to  her,  but  it  was  red  still,  though  worn  short  in 
her  neck,  for  he  remembered  that  distinctly.  Sarah 
Green's  letter  was  a  forger}7 — Alice's  prediction  was 
true,  aiid  Marian  still  lived. 

But  where  was  she  now  ?  Why  had  she  left  him  so 
abruptly  ?  and  would  he  ever  find  her  ?  Yes,  he 
would,  he  said.  He  would  spare  no  time,  no  pains,  no 
money  in  the  search  ;  and  when  he  found  her  he  would 
love  and  cherish  her  as  she  deserved.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  love  her  now,  and  he  wondered  at  his  infatua- 
tion for  Isabel,  whose  real  character  was  becoming 
more  and  more  apparent  to  him.  His  changed  de- 
meanor made  her  cross  and  fretful ;  while  Alice  Gib- 
son's letter,  asking  when  she  was  to  be  married,  and 
saying  people  there  expected  her  to  return  a  bride, 
only  increased  her  ill-humor,  which  manifested  itself 
several  times  toward  her  mother,  in  Frederic's  pre- 
sence. 

At  last,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  she  wrote  to  Agnes 
Gibson  that  she  never  expected  to  be  married — cer- 
tainly not  to  Frederic  Raymond — and  if  every  young 
lady  matrimonially  inclined  should  nurse  her  intended 
husband  through  a  course  of  fever,  she  guessed  they 
would  become  disgusted  with  mankind  generally,  and 
that  man  in  particular !  This  done,  Isabel  felt  better — 
so  much  better  indeed  that  she  resolved  upon  another 
trial  to  bring  about  her  desired  object,  and  one  day, 
about  two  weeks  after  her  mother's  arrival,  she  said  to 
Frederic : 

"  Now  that  you  are  nearly  well,  I  believe  I  shall  go 
to  New  Haven,  and,'  after  a  little,  mother  will  come, 
too.  I  shall  remain  there,  I  think,  though  mother,  I 
suppose,  will  keep  house  for  you  this  year,  as  she  has 
engaged  to  do." 


THE   FEVER.  201 

To  this  suggestion  Frederic  did  not  reply  just  as  she 
thought  lie  would. 

"  It  was  a  good  idea,"  he  said,  "  for  her  to  visit  her 
old  home,  and  he  presumed  she  wo^ld  enjoy  it."  -Then 
he  added,  very  faintly:  "Alice  will  need  a  teacher 
here  quite  as  much  as  in  Kentucky,  and  you  can 
retain  your  situation  if  you  choose." 

Isabel  bit  her  lip,  and  her  black  eyes  flashed  angrily 
as  she  replied : 

"  I  am  tired  of  teaching  only  one  pupil,  for  there  is 
nothing  to  interest  me,  and  I  am  all  worn  out,  too." 

She  did  look  pale,  and,  touched  with  pity,  Frederic 
said  to  her,  very  kin;;ly  : 

"  You  do  seem  weary,  Isabel.  You  have  been  con- 
fined with  me  too  long,  and  I  think  you  had  better  go 
at 'once.  I  will  run  down  to  see  you,  if  possible,  be- 
fore I  return  to  Kentucky." 

This  gave  her  hope,  and,  drying  her  eyes,  which 
were  filled  with  tears,  Isabel  chatted  pleasantly  with 
him  about  his  future  plans,  which  had  been  somewhat 
disarranged  by  his  unexpected  illness.  He  could  not 
now  hope  to  be  settled  at  Riverside,  as  he  called  his 
new  home,  until  some  time  in  June — perhaps  not  so 
soon — but  he  would  let  her  know,  he  said,  in  time  to 
meet  him  there. 

.  A  day  or  two  after  this  conversation,  Isabel  started 
for  New  Raven,  whither  in  the  course  of  a  week  she 
was  followed  by  both  her  mother  and  Rudolph,  the 
latter  of  whom  was  determined  not  to  lose  sight  of  her 
until  sure  that  the  engagement,  which  he  somewhat 
tloubted,  did  not  in  reality  exist. 

9* 


THE   SEARCH. 

WHEN  the  carriage  containing  Mrs.  Huntington 
rolled  away  from  the  hotel,  Frederic,  who  was  stand- 
ing upon  the  steps,  experienced  a  feeling  of  relief  in 
knowing  that,  as  far  as  personal  acquaintances  were 
concerned,  he  was  now  alone  and  free  to  commence 
his  search  for  Marian.  Each  day  the  conviction  had 
been  strengtnened  that  she  was  alive — that  she  had 
been  with  him  a  few  weeks  before — and  now  every  en- 
ergy should  be  devoted  to  finding  her.  Once  he 
thought  of  advertising,  but  she  might  not  see  the  pa- 
per, and  as  he  rather  shrank  from  making  his  affairs 
thus  public,  he  abandoned  the  project,  determining, 
however,  to  leave  no  other  means  untried  ;  he  would 
hunt  the  city  over,  inquire  at  every  house,  and  then 
scour  the  surrounding  country.  It  might  be  months, 
or  it  might  be  years,  ere  this  were  accomplished ;  but 
accomplish  it  he  would,  and  with  a  brave,  hopeful 
heart,  he  started  out,  taking  first  a  list  of  all  the  Mor- 
tons in  the  Directory,  then  searching  out  and  making, 
of  them  the  most  minute  inquiries,  except,  indeed,  in 
cases  where  he  knew,  by  the  nature  of  their  surround- 
ings, that  none  of  their  household  had  officiated  in  the 
capacity  of  nurse.  The  woman  who  had  taken  care  of 
him  was  poor  and  uneducated,  and  he  confined  himself 
mostly  to  that  class  of  people. 

But  all  in  vain.     No  familiar  face  ever  came  at  hia 
call.     Nobody  knew  her  whom  he  sought — no  one  had 


THE   SEARCH.  203 

heard  of  Marian  Lindsey,  and  at  last  he  thought  of 
Sally  Green,  determining  to  visit  her  again,  and,  ifpos- 
sible,  learn  something  more  of  the  girl  she  had  des- 
cribed. Perhaps  she  could  direct  him  to  Joe  Black, 
who  might  know  the  tall  man  last  seen  with  Marian. 
The  place  was  easily  found,  and  the  dangerous  stairs 
creaked  again  to  his  eager  tread.  Sal  knew  him  at 
once,  and  tucking  her  grizzly  hair  beneath  her  dirty 
cap,  waited  to  hear  his  errand,  which  was  soon  told. 
Could  she  give  him  any  further  information  of  that 
young  girl,  had  she  ever  heard  of  her  since  his  last 
visit  there,  and  would  she  tell  him  where  to  find  Joe 
Black? — he  might  know  who  the  man  was,  and  thus 
throw  some  light  on  the  mystery. 

"  Bless  your  heart,"  answered  the  woman,  "Joe  died 
three  weeks  ago  with  the  delirium  tremens,  so  what  you 
git  out  of  him  won't  help  you  much.  I  told  you  all  I 
knew  before ;  or  no,  come  to  think  on't,  I  seen  'em  go 
into  a  Third  avenue  car,  and  that  makes  me  think  the 
feller  lived  up  town.  But  law,  you  may  as  well  hunt 
fur  a  needle  in  a  haystack  as  to  hunt  for  a  lost  gal  in 
New  York.  You  may  git  out  all  the  police  you've 
a  mind  to,  and  then  you  ain't  no  better  off.  Ten  to 
one  they  are  wus  than  them  that's  hid  in'  her,  if  they 
do  wear  brass  buttons  and  feel  so  big,"  and  Sal  shook 
her  brawny  arm  threateningly  at  some  imaginary  offi- 
cers of  justice. 

With  a  feeling  of  disgust,  Frederic  turned  away,  and, 
retracing  his  steps,  came  at  last  to  the  Park,  where  he 
entered  a  Third  avenue  car,  though  why  he  did  so  he 
scarcely  knew.  He  did  not  expect  to  find  her  there, 
but  he  felt  a  satisfaction  in  thinking  she  had  once  been 
over  that  route — perhaps  in  that  very  car — and  he 
locked  curiously  in  the  faces  of  , his  fellow-passengers 
as  they  entered  and  left.  Wistfully,  too,  he  glanced 
out  at  the  houses  they  were  parsing,  saying  to  himself : 
4i  IB  it  there  Marian  lives,  or  there?"  and  once  when 
they  stopped  for  some  one  to  alight,  his  eye  wandered 
down  the  opposite  street,  resting  at  last  upon  a  window 


204  THE    SEAECII. 

high  up  in  a  huge  block  of  buildings.  There  was  noth- 
ing peculiar  about  that  window — nothing  to  attract 
attention,  unless  it  were  the  neat  white  fringed  curtain 
which  shaded  it,  or  the  rose  geranium  which  in  its 
little  earthen  pot  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  inmates 
of  that  tenement  retained  a  love  for  flowers  and  country 
fashions,  even  amid  the  smoke  and  the  dust  of  the  city. 
Frederic  saw  the  white  curtain,  and  it  reminded  him  of 
the  one  which  years  ago  hung  in  his  bedroom  at  the 
old  place  on  the  river.  He  saw  the  geranium,  too,,  and 
the  figure  which  bent  over  it  to  pluck  the  withered 
leaf.  Then  the  car  moved  on,  and  to  the  weary  man 
sitting  in  the  corner  there  came  no  voice  to  tell  how 
near  he  had  been  to  the  lost  one,  for  that  window  was 
Mrs.  Burt's,  and  the  bending  figure — Marian. 

He  had  seen  her — he  had  passed  within  a  few  rods  of 
her  and  she  could  have  heard  him  had  he  shouted  aloud, 
but  for  all  the  good  that  this  did  him  she  might  have 
been  miles  and  miles  away,  for  he  never  dreamed  of 
the  truth,  and  day  after  day  he  continued  his  search, 
while  the  excitement,  the  fatigue,  and  the  constant  dis- 
appointment, told  fearfully  upon  his  constitution.  Still 
he  would  not  give  it  up,  and  every  morning  he  went 
forth  with  hope  renewed,  onljT  to  return  at  night 
weary,  discouraged,  and  sometimes  almost  despairing 
of  success. 

Once,  at  the  close  of  a  rainy  afternoon,  he  entered 
again  a  Third  avenue  car,  which  would  leave  him  not- 
very  -far  from  his  hotel.  It  had  been  a  day  of  unusual 
fatigue  with  him,  and  utterly  exhausted,  he  sank  intc 
the  corner  seat,  while  passenger  after  passenger  crowd- 
ed in,  their  damp  overcoats  and  dripping  umbrellas 
filling  the  vehicle  with  a  sickly  steam,  which  affected 
him  unpleasantly,  causing  him  to  lean  his  aching  head 
upon  his  hand,  and  so  shut  out  what  was  going  ou 
around  him.  They  were  full  at  last — every  seat,  every 
standing  point  was  taken,  and  still  the  conductor  said 
there  was  room  for  another,  as  he  passed  in  a  delicate 
young  girl,  who  modestly  drew  her  vail  over  her  face 


THE   SEARCH.  205 

to  avoid  the  gaze  of  the  men,  some  of  whom  stared 
rather  rudely  at  her.  Just  after  she  came  in,  Frederic 
looked  up,  but  the  thick  folds  of  the  vail  told  no  tales 
of  the  sudden  paling  of  the  lip,  the  flushing  of  her 
cheek,  and  the  quiver  of  the  eye-lids.  .Neither  did  the 
violent  trembling  of  her  body,  nor  the  quick  pressure 
of  her  hand  upon  her  side  convey  to  him  other  im- 
pression than  that  she  was  tired — faint,  he  thought — 
and  touching  his  next  neighbor  with  his  elbow,  he 
compelled  him  to  move  along  a  few  inches,  while  he 
did  the  same,  and  so  made  room  for  the  girl  between 
himself  and  the  door. 

"  Sit  here,  Miss,"  he  said,  and  he  turned  partly 
toward  her,  as  if  to  shield  her  from  the  crowd,  for  he 
felt1  intuitively  that  she  was  not  like  them. 

Her  hands,  which  chanced  to  be  ungloved  and 
grasped  the  handle  of  her  basket,  were  small,  very 
email,  and  about  the  joints  were  little  laughing  dim- 
ples, looking  very  tempting  to  Frederic  Raymond, 
who  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  pretty  hands,  and 
who  now  felt  a  strong  desire  to  clasp  the  tiny  snow- 
flakes  just  within  his  reach. 

Involuntarily  he  thought  of  those  which  had  so  lately 
held  his  feverish  head ;  they  must  have  been  much 
like  the  little  ones  holding  so  fast  the  basket,  and  he 
wished  that  chance  had  brought  Marian  there  instead 
of  the  yoimur  girl  sitting  so  still  beside  him.  A  strange 
sensation  thrilled  him  at  the  very  idea  of  meeting  her 
thus,  while  his  heart  beat  fast,  but  never  said  to  him 
that  it  was  Marian  herself!  Why  didn't  it?  He 
asked  himself  that  question  a  thousand  times  in  after 
years,  saying  he  should  know  her  again,  but  he  had  no 
suspicion  of  it  now,  though  when  they  stopped  at  the 
same  street  down  which,  he  once  had  looked  at  the 
open  window,  and  when  the  seat  beside  him  -was 
empty,  he  did  experience  a  sense  of  loneliness — a  feel- 
ing as  it'  a  part  of  himself  had  gone  with  the  young 
girl.  Suddenly  remembering  that  in  his  abstraction 
he  had  come  higher  up  than  he  wished  to  do,  he  also 


206  THE   SEARCH. 

alighted,  and  standing  upon  the  muddy  pavement, 
looked  after  the  tripping  figure  moving  so  rapidly  to- 
ward the  window  where  the  geranium  was  blossoming, 
and  where  a  light  was  shining  now.  It  disappeared 
at  last,  and  mentally  chiding  him  for  stopping  in  the 
rain  to  watch  a  perfect  stranger,  Frederic  turned  back 
in  the  direction  of  his  hotel,  while  the  girl,  who  had 
BO  awakened  his  interest,  rushed  up  the  narrow  stairs, 
and  bounded  into  the  room  where  Mrs.  Burt  was  sit- 
ting, exclaimed  : 

"  I've  seen  him !  I've  sat  beside  him  in  the  same 
car !" 

"  Why  didn't  you  fetch  him  home,  then  ?"  asked 
Ben,  who  had  returned  that  afternoon  from  a  short  ex- 
cursion in  the  country. 

Marian's  face  crimsoned  at  this  question,  and  in  a 
hard,  unnatural  voice  she  replied  : 

"He  didn't  wish  to  come.  He  didn't  even  pretend 
to  recognize  me,  though  he  gave  me  a  seat,  and  I  knew 
him  so  quick." 

"  Had  that  brown  dud  over  your  face,  I  s'pose,"  re- 
turned Beti,  casting  a  rueful  glance  at  the  vail.  "  No- 
body can  tell  who  a  woman  is,  now-a-days.  Why  didn't 
you  pull  it  off  and  claim  him  for  your  husband,  and 
make  him  pay  your  fare  ?" 

"  Oh,  Ben,"  said  Marian,  "  you  certainly  wouldn't 
have  me  degrade  myself  like  thatl  Frederic  knew 
who  I  was,  I  am  sure,  for  I  saw  him  so  plain — but  he 
does  not  wish  to  find  me.  He  never  asked  f.»r  me 
since  I  left  his  sick  room.  All  he  cared  for  was  Isa- 
bel, and  I  wish  it  were  possible  for  him  to  marry  her." 

"  You  don't  wish  any  such  thing,"  answered  Ben,  and 
in  the  same  cold,  hard  tone  Marian  continued : 

"  I  do.  I  thought  so  to-night  when  I  sat  beside  him 
and  looked  into  his  face.  I  loved  him  once  as  much 
as  one  can  love  another,  and  because  I  loved  him  thus 
1  came  away,  thinking  in  my  ignorance  that  he  might 
be  happy  with  Isabel ;  and  when  I  saw  that  Advertise- 
ment, I  wrote,  asking  if  I  might  go  back  again.'  The 


THE   SEARCH.  207 

result  of  the  letter  you  know.  He  insulted  me  cruelly. 
He  told  me  a  falsehood,  and  still  I  was  not  cured. 
When  I  thought  him  dying  in  the  hotel,  I  went  and 
etaid  -Hth  him  till  the  other  came:  but,  after  I  was 
gone,  he  never  spoke  of  me,  and  he  even  professed  not 
to  know  Mrs.  Daniel  Burt,  asking  who  she  was,  when 
he  knew  as  well  as  I,  for  I  told  him  who  she  was,  and 
he  directed  my  letter  to  her.  I  never  used  to  think  he 
was  deceitful,  but  I  know  it  now,  and  I  almost  hate 
him  for  it." 

"  Tut,  tut.  No  you  don't,"  chimed  in  Ben  ;  and  Ma- 
rian growing  still  more  excited,  continued,  "  Well,  if  I 
don't,  I  will.  1  have  run  after  him  all  I  ever  shall, 
and  now  if  we  are  reconciled  he  must  make  the  first 
concessions  !" 

"Wlie\v-ew,"  whistled  Ben,  thinking  to  himself, 
"  Ain't  the  little  critter  spunky,  though  !"  and  feeling 
rather  amused  than  otherwise,  he  watched  Marian  as 
she  paced  the  floor,  her  blue  eyes  flashing  angrily  and 
her  whole  face  indicative  of  strong  excitement. 

She  fully  believed  that  Frederic  knew  her,  simply 
because  she  recognized  him,  and  his  failing  to  ac 
knowledge  the  recognition  tilled  her  with  indignation 
and  determination  to  forget  him  if  it  were  possible. 
Ah,  little  did  she  dream  then  of  .the  lonely  man,  who, 
in  the  same  room  where  she  so  recently  had  been,  sat 
with  bowed  head,  and  thought  of  her  until  the  distant 
bells  tolled  the  hour  of  midnight. 

It  was  now  three  weeks  since  he  commenced  his 
search,  and  he  was  beginning  to  despair  of  success.  His 
presence  he  knew  was  needed  in  Kentucky,  where 
Alice  had  been  left  alone  with  the  negroes,  and  where 
his  arrangements  for  moving  were  not  yet  completed. 
His  house  on  the  river  was  waiting  for  him,  the  people 
wondering  why  he  didn't  come,  and  as  he  sat  think- 
ing it,  all  over,  he  resolved  at  last  to  go  home  and  bring 
Aliee  to  Riverside — to  send  for  Mrs.  Huntington  as 
had  previously  been  arranged,  and  then,  begin  the 
search  again.  Of  Isabel  too,  he  thought,  remembering 


.208  THE   SEARCH. 

his  hasty  promise  of  going  to  New  Haven,  but  this  he 
could  not  do.  So  he  penned  her  a  few  lines,  telling 
her  how  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  come,  and  say- 
ing that  on  his  return  to  Riverside  with  Alice,  he 
should  expect  to  find  her  mother  and  herself  waiting 
to  receive  him. 

"  I  cannot  do  less  than  this,"  he  said.  "  Isabel  has 
been  with  me  a  long  time,  and  though  I  do  not  feel  to- 
ward her  as  I  did,  I  pity  her ;  for  I  am  afraid  she  likes 
me  better  than  she  should.  I  have  given  her  encour- 
agement, too;  but  when  I  come  back,  I  will  talk  with 
her  candidly.  I  will  tell  her  how  it  is,  and  offer  her  a 
home  with  me  as  loeg  as  she  shall  choose  to  stay.  I 
will  be  to  her  a  brother ;  and  when  Marian  is  found, 
the  two  shall  be  like  sisters,  until  some  man  who  has 
not  a  wife  already  takes  Isabel  from  my  hands." 

Thus  deciding,  Frederic  wrote  to  Alice,  telling  her 
when  lie  should  probably  be  home,  and  saying  he 
should  stop  for  a  day  or  so  at  Yonkers.  This  done,  he 
retired  to  rest,  dreaming  strange  dreams  of  Marian  and 
the  girl  who  sat  beside  him.  They  were  one  and  the 
same,  he  thought ;  and  he  was  raising  the  brown  vail 
to  see,  when  he  awoke  to  consciousness,  and  experi- 
enced a  feeling  of  disappointment  in  finding  his  dream 
untrue.  . 

That  morning  a  vague,  uneasy  feeling  prompted  him 
to  stroll  slowly  down  the  street  whither  the  young  girl 
had  gone  the  previous  night.  The  window  in  the  third 
story  was  open  again,  and  the  geranium  was  standing 
there  still,  its  broad  leaves  growing  fresher  and  greener 
in  the  sunshine  which  shone  warm  upon  the  window 
sill,  where  a  beautiful  kitten  lay,  apparently  asleep. 
Frederic  saw  it  all,  and  for  an  instant  felt  a  thrill  of 
fear  lest  the  cat  should  fall  and  be  killed  on  the  pave- 
ment below.  Bur,  a  second  glance  assured  him  of  its 
safety — for,  half  buried  in  its  long,  silk  fur,  was  a 
small  white  hand,  a  hand  like  Marian's  and  that  of  the 
girl  with  the  thick  brown  vail.  ults  owner  was  the 
mistress  of  the  kitten,"  he  said ;  and  the  top  of  her 


THE   SEAKCH.  209 

head  was  just  visible,  for  she  cat  reading  upon  a  little 
stool,  and  utterly  unconscious  of  the  strar.ger  who,  on 
the  opposite  side  in  the  street,  cast  many  and  wistful 
glances  in  that  direction,  not  because  he  fancied  that 
she  was  there,  nor  yet  for  any  explainable  reason,  ex- 
cept that  the  fringed  curtain  reminded  him  of  his  boy- 
hood ;  and  he  knew  the  occupant  of  that  room  had 
once  lived  in  the  country,  and  bleached  her  linen  on 
the  sweet,  clean  grass,  which  grew  by  the  running 
brook. 

"  Marian,"  said  Mrs.  Burt,  "  who  is  that  tall  man  go- 
ing down  the  street  ?  He's  been  looking  this  way  ever 
BO  much.  Isn't  it " 

She  did  not  need  to  repeat  the  name,  for  Marian 
saw  who  it  was,  and  her  fingers  buried  themselves  so 
deeply  in  the  fat  sides  of  the  kitten  that  the  little  ani- 
mal fancied  the  play  rather  too  rude  for  comfort,  and, 
spitting  at  her  mistress  pertly  bounded  upon  the  flour. 

"  It's  Frederic  !"  cried  Marian.  "  Maybe  he's  com- 
ing here,  for  he  has  crossed  the  street  below,  and  is 
coming  up  this  side."  And  in  her  joy  Marian  forgot 
the  harsh  things  she  had  said  of  him  only  the  night  be- 
fore. 

But  in  vain  Marian  waited  for  the  step  upon  the 
stairs — the  loud  knock  upon  the  door — neither  of  them 
came,  and  leaning  from  the  window  she  watched  him 
through  her  tears  until  he  passed  from  sight. 

That  afternoon,  as  Frederic  was  sauntering  leis- 
urely down  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  depot — 
ior  he  intended  going  to  Yonkers  that  night — he  stum- 
bled upon  Ben,  whose  characteristic  exclamation  was, 
"  Wall,  Square,  glad  to  see  you  out  agin,  but  I  didn't 
b'lieve  I  ever  should  when  I  sent  word  to  thatgul.  She 
come,  Is' pose?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  Frederic,  "  and  I  am  grateful  to 
you  for  your  kindness  in  telegraphing  to  my  friends. 
How  did  you  know  I  was  sick?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  alius  'round,"  said  Ben.  "Know  one  of 
them  boys  at  the  hotel,  and  he  told  me.  I  s'posed 


210  THE   SEARCH. 

you'd  die,  and  I  should  of  come  to  see  yon  mabby, 
only  I  had  to  go  off  peddlin'.  Bizness  afore  pleasure, 
you  know." 

This  remark  seemed  to  imply  that  Frederic's  dying 
would  have  been  a  source  of  pleasure  to  the  Yankee, 
but  the  young  man  knew  that  he  did  intend  it,  and  the 
two  walked  on  together — Ben  plying  his  companion 
with  questions,  and  learning  that  both  Isabel  and  Mrs. 
Huntington  were  now  in  New  Haven,  but  would  prob- 
ably go  to  Riverside  when  Frederic  returned  from, 
Kentucky. 

"  That's  a  grand  place,"  said  Ben  ;  "  fixed  up  in  tip- 
top style,  too.  I  took  my  sister  out  to  see  it,  and  she 
thought  'twas  pretty  slick.  Wouldn't  wonder  if  you're 
goin'  to  marry  that  black  haired  gal,  by  the  looks  of 
things?"  and  Ben's  gray  eyes  peered  sideways  at  Fred- 
eric, who  replied,  "  I  certainly  have  no  such  inten- 
tions." 

"You  don't  say  it,"  returned  Ben.  "I  shouldn't 
of  took  the  trouble  to  send  for  her  it'  I  hadn't  s'posed 
you  was  kinder  courtin'.  My  sister  thought  you  was,  and 
she  or'f.o  know,  bein'  she's  been  through  the  mill !" 

Frederic  winced  under  Ben's  pointed  remarks,  and 
as  a  means  of  changing  the  conversation,  said,  "  If  I 
a;n  not  mistaken,  you  spoke  of  your  sister  when  in 
Kentucky,  and  Alice  became  -quite  interested.  I've 
heard  her  mention  the  girl  several  times.  What  is  her 
name  ?" 

"  Do  look  at  that  hoss — flat  on  the  pavement.  He's 
a  goner,"  Ben  exclaimed,  by  way  of  gaining  a  little 
time. 

Frederic's  attention  was  immediatly  diverted  from 
Ben,  who  thought  to  himself,  "I'll  try  him  with  half 
the  truth,  and  if  he's  any  ways  bright  he'll  guess  the 
rest  " 

So  when,  to  use  Ben's  words,  the  noble  quadruped 
was  "safely  landed  on  t'other  side  of  Jordan  where 
there  wan't  no  omnibus  drivers,  no  cars,  no  canal  boats, 
no  cartinen,  no  gals  to  pound  their  backs  into  pum- 


THE   SEAECH.  211 

mice,  no  wimmen,  nor  ministers  to  yank  their  mouths, 
nor  nothin'  but  a  lot  as  big  as  the  United  States  with 
the  Missippi  runnin'  through  it,  and  nothin'  to  do  but 
kick  up  their  heels  and  eat  clover,"  Ben  came  back  to 
Frederic's  question,  and  said,  "  You  as't  my  sister's 
name.  They  tried  hard  to  call  her  Mary  Ann,  I 
s'pose..  My  way  of  thinkin'  'taint  neither  one  nof 
t'other,  though  mabby  you'll  like  it — MARIAN  ;  'taint  a 
common  name.  Did  you  ever  hear  it  afore?" 

"Marian  !"  gasped  "Frederic,  turning  instantly  pale, 
while  a  strange,  unden'nable  feeling  swept  over  him — 
a  feeling  hat  he  had  never  been  so  near  finding  her  as 
now. 

"  Excuse  me,  Square,"  said  Ben,  whose  keen  eyes 
lost  not  a  single  change  in  the  expression  of  Frederic's 
face.  "  I'm  such  a  blunderin'  critter !  That  little 
blind  gal  told  me  your  fust  wife  was  Marian,  and  I 
or'to  known  better  than  harrer  your  feelings  with  the 
name." 

"Never  mind,"  returned  Frederic,  faintly,  "but  tell 
me  of  your  sister — and  now  I  think  of  it,  you  said  once 
you  were  from  down  east,  which  I  supposed  referred 
to  one  of  the  New  England  states,  Vermont  perhaps  ?" 

"  Did  use  to  live  in  Massachusetts,"  replied  Ben,  "  But 
can't  a  feller  move  ?" 

Frederic  admitted  that  he  could,  and  Ben  continued, 
"  I  or'to  told  you,  I  s'pose,  that  Marian  ain't  my  own 
flesh  and  blood — she's  adopted,  that's  all.  But  I  love 
her  jest  the  same.  Her  name  is  Marian  Grey,"  and 
Ben  looked  earnestly  at  Frederic,  thinking  to  himself, 
"  Won't  he  take  the  hint  when  he  knows,  or  had  or'to 
know  that  her  mother  was  a  Grey." 

But  hints  were  lost  on  Frederic.  He  had  no  suspi 
cion  of  the  truth,  and  Ben  proceeded,  "  All  her  kin  is 
dead,  and  as  mother  hadn't  no  daughter  she  took  this 
orphan,  and  I'm  workin'  hard  to  give  her  a  good 
Bchoolin'.  She  can  play  the  planner  like  fury,  and 
talks  the  French  grammar  most  as  well  as  i  do  the 
English  !" 


212  THE   SEARCH. 

This  brought  a  smile  to  Frederic's  face,  and  he  did 
not  for  a  moment  think  of  doubting  Ben's  word. 

"You  seem  very  proud  of  yonr  sister,"  he  said,  at 
last,  "and  as  I  owe  }Tou  something  for  caring  for  me 
and  telegraphing  to  my  friends,  let  me  show  my  grat- 
itude by  giving  you  something  for  this  Marian  Grey. 
What  shall  it  be?  Is  she  fond  of  jewelry?  Most 
young  girls  are." 

Ben  stuck  his  hands  in  his  .trousers  pocket  and 
seemed  to  be  thinking ;  then,  removing  his  hands  he 
replied,  "  Mabby  you'll  think  it  sassy,  but  there  is 
Bomethin'  that  would  plea&e  us  both.  I  told  her  about 
you  when  I  came  from  Kentucky,  and  she  cried  like  a 
baby  over  that  blind  gal.  Then,  when  you  was  sick, 
she  felt  worried  agin,  beg  your  pardon,  Square,  but  I 
told  her  you  was  han'some.  Jest  give  us  your  picter, 
if  it  ain't  bigger  than  my  thumb,  and  would  it  be  ask- 
ing too  much  for  you  when  you  git  home  to  send  me 
the  blind  gal's.  She's  an  angel,  and  I  should  feel  so 
good  to  have  her  face  in  my  pocket.  You  can  direct 
to  Ben  Butterworth — but  law,  you  won't,  I  know  you 
won't." 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Frederic,  laughing  at  the  novel 
request.  "Mine  you  shall  surely  have,  and  Alice's 
also,  if  she  consents.  Come  withme  now,  for  we  are  op- 
posite a  daguerrean  gallery." 

The  result  of  this  was  that  in  a  short  time  Ben  held 
in  his  hand  a  correct  likeness  of  Frederic,  which  was 
of  priceless  value  to  him,  because  he  knew  how  highly 
it  would  be  prized  by  her  for  whom  alone  he  had  re- 
quested it. 

As  they  passed  out  into  the  street  again,  Frederic 
said  to  him.  rather  abruptly,  "  Do  you  know  Sarah 
Green  ?" 

"No,"  answed  Ben,  and  Frederic  continued, 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Merton  ?" 

Ben  started  a  little,  and  then  repeating  the  name 
replied,  "  Ain't  acquainted  with  that  name  neither. 
Who  is  she?" 


THE   SEARCH.  213 

"She  took  care  of  me,"  returned  Frederic,  "and  I 
would  like  to  find  her,  and  thank  her  for  her  kind 
ness." 

"  I  shouldn't  s'pose  she  conld  of  took  care  of  you 
alone,  eick  as  you  was,"  said  Ben,  waiting  eagerly  for 
the  answer,  which,  had  it  been  what  he  desired,  might 
lead  to  the  unfolding  of  the  mystery.  4 

But  Frederic  shrank  from  making  Ben  his  confidant. 
"  It  was  hard  for  her  till  Miss  Huntington  carne." 

"  Blast  Miss  Hnntington,"  thought  Ben,  now  thor- 
oughly satisfied  that  his  companion  did  not  care  to  dis- 
cover Marian,  or  he  would  certainly  say  something 
about  her. 

Both  she  and  his  mother  were  sure  that  he  knew 
she  had  been  with  him  in  his  sickness,  and  if  he  really 
wished  to  find  her  he  would  speak  of  her  as  well  as  of 
Mrs.  Merton. 

''But  he  don't,"  thought  Ben.  "He  don't  care  a 
straw  for  her,  and  she's  right  when  she  says  she  won't 
run  after  him  any  more.  He  don't  like  Isabel  none 
too  well,  and  I  raally  b'lieve  the  man  is  crazy." 

This  settled  the  matter  satisfactorily  with  Ben,  who 
accompanied  Frederic  to  the  depot,  waiting  there  until 
the  departure  of  the  train. 

"  Give  my  regrets  to  that  Josh,  and  the  rest  of  the 
niggers,  and  don't  on  no  account  forget  the  picter," 
were  his  last  words,  as  he  quitted  the  car,  and  then 
hurried  home  impatient  to  show  Marian  his  surprise. 

He  found  her  sitting  by  the  open  window — a  listless, 
dreamy  look  in  her  blue  eyes,  and  a  sad  expression 
upon  her  face,  which  said  that  her  thoughts  were  far 
away  in  the  South-land,  where  Nature  had  decked  her 
beautiful  home  with  all  the  glories  of  the  merry  month 
of  May  and  the  first  bright  days  of  June.  Roses  were 
blooming  there  now",  she  knew,  and  she  thought  of  the 
bush  she  had  planted  beneath  the  library  window, 
wondering  if  that  were  in  bloom,  and  if  its  fragrance 
ever  reminded  the  dear  ones  of  her.  Did  Alice  twine 
the  buds  amid  her  soft  hair,  just  as  'she  used  to  do, 


214:  THE   SEARCH. 

and  call  them  Marian's  buds,  saying  they  were  sweeter 
than  all  the  rest  ? 

"Darling  Alice,"  she  murmured,  "I  shall  never 
see  her  again  :"  and  her  tears  were  dropping  upon  her 
lap  just  as  Ben  came  in,  and  began  : 

"Wall,  wee  one,  I've  seen  the  Square,  and  talked 
with  him  of  you." 

"  Oh,  Ben,  Ben  !" — and  Marian's  face  was  spotted 
with  her  excitement — "  what  made  you  ?  "What  did 
he  say  ?  and  where  is  he  ?" 

"  Gone  home,"  answered  Ben ;  "  but  he  had  this 
took  on  purpose  for  you ;"  and  he  tossed  the  picture 
into  her  lap. 

"  It  ig — it  is  Frederic.  Oh,  Mrs.  Burt,  it  is,"  and 
Marian's  lip  touched  the  glass,  from  which  the  face  of 
Frederic  Raymond  looked  kindly  out  npon  her. 

It  was  thinner  than  when  she  used'  to  know  it,  but 
fuller,  stronger-looking  than  when  it  lay  among  the 
tumbled  pillows.  The  eyes,  too,  were  hollow,  and  not 
so  bright,  while  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  rich  brown 
hair  was  not  so  thrifty  as  of  old.  But  it  was  Frederic 
still,  her  Frederic,  and  she  pressed  it  again  to  her  lips, 
while  her  heart  thrilled  M'ith  the  joyful  thought  that  he 
remembered  her,  and  had  sent  her  this  priceless  token. 
But  why  had'he  gone  home  without  her — why  had  he 
left  her  there  alone  if  he  really  cared  for  finding  her? 
Slowly,  as  a  cloud  obscures  a  summer  sky,  a  shadow 
crept  over  her  face — a  shadow  of  doubt — of  distrust. 
There  was  something  she  had  not  heard,  and  with  qui- 
veriug  lip  she  said  to  Ben,  "What  does  it  mean? 
You  have  not  told  me  why  he  sent  it." 

It  was  cruel  to  deceive  her  as  he  had  done,  and  so 
Ben  thought  when  he  saw  the  heaving  of  her  chest, 
the  pressure  of  her  hands,  and  more  than  all,  the 
whiteness  of  her  face,  as  he  told  her  why  Frederic 
sent  to  her  that  picture ;  that  it  was  not  taken  for 
Marian  Lindsey,  but  rather  for  Marian  Grey,  adopted 
sister  of  Benjamin  Butterworth. 

"  He  does  not  wish  to  find  me,"  said  Marian  when 


.    THE   SEARCH.  215 

Ben  had  finished  speaking.     "  We  shall  never  be  re- 
conciled, and  it  is  just  as  well,  perhaps." 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  rejoined  Ben,  "  or  at  any  rate  I'd 
let  him  rest  a  spell,  and  learn  everything  there  is  in 
books  for  woman-kind  to  learn.  You  shall  go  to  col- 
lege, if  you  say  so,  and  bimeby,  when  the  old  Nick 
himself  wouldn't  know  you,  I'll  get  you  a  chance  to 
teach  that  blind  gal,  and  he'll  fall  in  love  with  his 
own  wife;  see  if  he  don't,"  and  Ben  stroked  the  curls 
within  his  reach  very  caressingly,  thinking  to  himself, 
"  I  won't  tell  her  now  'bout  Alice's  picter,  'cause  it 
may  not  come,  but  I'll  cheer  her  up  the  best  way  that 
I  can.  (She  grows  handsome  every  day  of  her  life," 
and  as  this,  in  Ben's  estimation,  was  the  one  thing  of 
all  others  to  be  desired  by  Marian,  .he  could  not  for- 
bear complimenting  her  aloud  upon  her  rapid  improve- 
ment in  looks. 

"Thank  you,"  she  answered,  smiling  very  faintly, 
for  to  her,  beauty  or  accomplishments  were  of  little 
avail  it' in  the  end  Frederic's  love  were  not  secured. 

Anon,  however,  hope  whispered  to  her  that  it  might 
be,  and  again  she  opened  the  daguerreotype,  catching 
a  glow  of  encouragement  from  the  eyes  which  looked 
so  kindly  at  her,  as  if  they  fain  would  tell  her  of  the 
weary  days  the  original  of  that  picture  had  spent  in 
searching  for  her,  or  how,  even  now,  amid  the  noise 
and  dust  of  the  crowded  cars,  he  sat,  wholly  unmind- 
ful of  what  was  passing  around,  never  looking  at  the 
beautiful  blue  river  without,  or  yet  at  the  motley 
passengers  within,  "tout  with  his  hat  drawn  over  his 
eyes  and  his  shawl  across  his  lap,  he  thought  of  her 
alone,  except  indeed  occasionally  when  there  would 
intrude  itself  upon  him  the  remembrance  of  the  girl 
with  the  brown  vail,  or  a  thought  of  Marian  Grey  I 


CHAPTER  XYTEL 

HOME   AGAIN. 

FREDERIC  was  coming  home  again — "Harster  Fred- 
eric," who,  as  Dinfih  said,  "  had  been  so  near  to  king- 
dom-come that  he  could  hear  the  himes  they  sung  on 
Sundays." 

Joyfully  the  blacks  told  to  each  other  the  glad  news, 
which  was  an  incentive  for  them  all  to  bestir  them- 
selves as  they  had  not  done  before  during  the  whole 
period  of  their  master's  absence.  Old  Dinah,  whose 
mind  turned  naturally  upon  eatables,  busied  herself 
in  conjuring  up  some  new  and  harmless  relish  for  the 
invalid,  while  Uncle  Phil  spent  all  the  whole  day  in 
rubbing  down  the  horses  and  rubbing  up  the  carriage 
with  which  he  intended  meeting  his  master  at  Frank- 
fort. Josh,  too,  caught  the  general  spirit,  and  remem- 
bering how  much  his  master  was  wont  to  chide  him 
for  his  slovenly  appearance,  he  cast  rueful  glances  at 
his  sorry  coat  and  red  cowhides,  wishing  to  goodness 
he  had  some  "  clothes  to  honor  the  'c&sion  with." 

"  I  m-m-might  sh-sh-shine  these  up  a  little,"  he  said, 
examining  his  boots,  and,  purloining  a  tallow  candle 
from  Hetty's  cupboard,  he  set  himself  to  the  task, 
succeeding  BO  well  that  he  was  almost  certain  of  com- 
mendation. 

A  coat  of  uncle  Phil's  was  borrowed  next,  and 
though  it  hung  like  a  tent  cloth -about  Josh's  lank  pro- 
portions, the  effect  was  entirely  satisfactory  to  the  boy, 


HOME    AGAIN.  217 

who  had  a  consciousness  of  having  done  all  that  could 
reasonably  be  expected  of  him. 

In  the  house  Alice  was  not  idle.  From  the  earliest 
dawn  she  had  been  up,  for  there  was  something  on 
her  mind  which  kept  her  wakeful  and  restless.  Fred- 
eric's letters,  which  were  read  to  her  by  the  wife  of 
the  overseer,  who  lived  near  by,  had  told  her  of  the 
blue-eyed  girl  who  had  been  with  him  in  his  sickness, 
and  in  one  letter,  written  ere  he  had  given  up  the 
search,  he  had  said,  while  referring  to  the  girl:  "Dar- 
ling Alice,  I  am  so  glad  you  sent  me  here,  for  I  hope 
to  bring  you  a  great  and  joyful  surprise." 

Not  the  least  mention  did  he  make  of  Marian,  but 
Alice  understood  at  once  that  he  meant  her.  Marian 
and  the  blue-eyed  girl  were  the  same,  and  he  would 
bring  her  back  to  them  again.  She  was  certain  of  it, 
and  though  in  his  last  letter,  dated  at  Riverside,  and 
apprising  them  of  his  intended  return,  he  had  not 
alluded  to  the  subject,  it  made  no  difference  with  her. 
He  wished  really  to  surprise  her,  she  thought,  and 
seeking  out  Dinah,  she  said  to  her,  rather  cautiously, 
for  she  would  let  no  one  into  her  secret : 

"  Supposing  Frederic  had  never  been  married  to 
Marian,  but  had  gone  now  after  a  bride — I  don't  mean 
Isabel,"  she  said,  as  she  felt  the  defiant  expression  of 
Dinah's  face — "  but  somebody  else — somebody  real 
nice.  Supposing,  I  say,  he  was  going  to  bring  her 
home,  which  room  do  you  think  he  would  wish  her  to 
have  ?" 

"  The  best  chamber,  in  course,"  answered  Dinah — 
"  the  one  whar  the  'hogany  bedstead  and  silk  quilt  is. 
You  wouldn't  go  to  pattin'  Marster  Frederic's  wife 
off  with  poor  truck,  I  hope.  But  what  made  you  ask 
that  question  ?  What  have  you  hearn  ?" 

"Nothing  iu  particular,"  answered  Alice,  "only  it 
would  bo  nice  if  he  should  bring  somebody  with  him, 
and  I  want  to  fix  the  room  just  as  though  I  knew  he 
would.  May  Lid  sweep  and  dust  it  for  me?" 

For  a  moment  Dinah  looked  at  her  as  if  she  thought 
10 


218  HOME   AGAIW. 

her  crazy.  Then  thinking  to  herself,  "  it'll  'muse  her 
a  spell  any  way,  and  I  may  as  well  humor  her  whim," 
she  replied.  "  Sakes  alive,  yes,  and  I'll  ar  the  bed. 
Thar  haint  nobody  slep'  in't  sence  Marian  run  away, 
'cept  Miss  Agnes  one  night  and  that  trollop,  Isabel, 
who  consulted  me  by  sayin'  how't  they  done  clarm- 
bered  onto  a  table  afore  they  could  get  inter  bed,  'twas 
so  high.  Ain't  used  to  feathers  wliar  she  was  raised, 
I  reckon,  and  if  you'll  b'lieve  it,  she  said  how't  she 
allus  slep'  on  har  afore  she  come  here  !  Pretty  stuff 
that  must  be  to  He  on  ;  but  Lord,  them  Yankees  is 
mostly  as  poor  as  poverty,  and  don't  know  no  djffer." 

Having  relieved  herself  of  this  speech,  which  invol- 
ved both  her  opinion  of  Yankees  in  general  and  Isabel 
in  particular,  the  old  lady  proceeded  to  business,  first 
arin1  the  bed,  as  she  said,  and  then  making  it  higher, 
if  possible,  than  it  was  made  on  the  night  when  Isa- 
bel so  injured  her  feelings  by  laughing  at  its  hight. 
Lid's  services  were  next  brought  into  requisition  ;  and 
when  the  chamber  was  swept  and  dusted,  the  arrange- 
in  ent  of  the  furniture  was  left  entirely  to  Alice,  who 
felt  that  what  she  did  was  right,  and  wished  so  much 
that  she  could  see  just  how  Marian's  fa.orite  chair 
looked  standing  by  the  window,  from  which  the  gor- 
geous sunsets  Marian  so  much  admired  could  be 
plainly  seen.  Just  opposite,  and  on  the  other  side  of 
the  window,  Frederic's  easy  chair  was  placed — the  one 
in  which  he  always  sat  when  tired,  and  where  Alice 
fancied  he  would  now  delight  to  sit  with  Marian,  so 
near  that  he  could  look  into  her  eyes  and  tell  her  that 
he  was  gla<l  to  have  her  there.  He  was  beginning  to 
love  her  Alice  knew  by  the  tone  of  his  letters ;  and 
her  heart  thrilled  with  joy  as  she  thought  of  the  happi- 
ness in  store  for  them  all.  She  would  not  be  lonely 
now  in  her  own  pleasant  chamber,  for  it  was  so  near  to 
Marian's.  She  could  leave  the  doors  open  between, 
and  that  would  be  so  much  nicer  than  having  black 
Ellen  sleeping  on  the  floor. 

Dear  little  Alice  1   SJie  built  bright  castles  in  the  air 


HOME    AGAIN. 

that  summer  day,  and  they  were  as  real  to  her  as  if 
Frederic  had  written,  "  Marian  is  found,  and  coming 
home  with  me."  % 

"  She  loved  a  great  many  flowers  around  her,"  she 
said,  and  groping  her  way  down  the  stairs  and  out 
into  the  yard,  she  gathered  from  the  tree  beneath  the 
library  window  a  profusion  of  buds  and  half  opened 
roses,  which  she  arranged  into  bouquets,  and  placed  in 
vases  for  Marian,  just  as  Marian  had  gathered  flowers 
for  her  from  the  garden  far  away  on  the  river. 

It  was  done  at  last ;  and  very  inviting  th  t  pleasant, 
airy  apartment  looked  with  its  handsome  furniture,  its 
bright  carpet  and  muslin  curtains  of  snowy  white, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  towering  bed.  There  were  flow- 
ers on  the  mantle,  flowers  on  the  table,  flowers  in  the 
window,  flowers  everywhere,  and  their  sweet  perfume 
filled  the  air  with  a  delicious  fragrance  which  Dinah 
declared  was  "aheap  sight  better  than  that  scent 
Miss  Isabel  used  to  put  on  her  hankercher  and  fan. 
Ugh,  that  fan  !"  and  Dinah's  nose  was  elevated  at  the 
very  thought  of  Isabel's  sandal-wood  fan  which  had 
been  her  special  abhorrence. 

"Isn't  it  most  time  for  Uncle  Phil  to  start?"  asked 
Alice,  when  Dinah  had  finished  fixing  the  room. 

"  Yes,  high  time,"  answered  Dinah,  "but  Phil  is  so 
slow.  I'll'jest  hurry  him  up,''  and  followed  by  Alice 
she  descended  the  stairs,  meeting  in  the  lower  hall  with 
Lyd,  who  held  in  her  hand  a  brown  envelope,  which 
she  passed  to  Alice,  saying  "  One  dem  letters  what 
come  like  lightnin'  on  the  telegraph.  A  boy  done 
brung  it." 

"  A  telegram,"  cried  Alice,  feeling  at  first  alarmed. 
"  Go  for  Mrs.  Warren  to  read  it." 

But  the  overseer's  wife  was  absent,  as  was  also  her 
husband,  and  neither  the  blacks  nor  Alice  knew  what 
to  do. 

"  There  isn't  more  than  a  line  and  a  half,"  said  Alice, 
passing  her  finger  over  the  paper  and  feeling  the  thick 
sand  which  had  been  sifted  upon  it.  "  I  presume 


220  HOME   AGAIN. 

something  has  detained  Frederic,  and  he  has  sent 
word  that  he  will  not  be  here  to-day." 

"  Let  me  see  -dat  ar,"  said  Phil,  who  liked  to  impress 
his  companions  with  a  sense  of  his  superior  wisdom, 
and,  adjusting  his  iron-bowed  specs,  he  took  the  letter, 
which  in  reality  was  Greek  to  him. 

After  an  immense  amount  of  wry  faces  and  loud 
whispering  he  said : 

"  Yes,  honey,  you're  correct,  though  Marster  Fred- 
eric has  sich  an  onery  hand-write  that  it  takes  me  a 
a  heap  of  time  to  make  it  out.  It  reads,  'Some- 
thin'  has  detained  Frederic,  and  he  has  sent  word 
that  he'll  be  here  to-morry.' "  And,  with  the  utmost 
gravity,  Phil  took  off  his  specs,  and  was  walking  away 
with  the  air  of  one  who  has  done  something  his  com- 
panions could  never  hope  to  do,  when  Hetty  called 
out : 

"  Wonder  if  he  'spects  us  to  swaller  dat  ar,  and 
think  he  kin  read,  when  he  jest  done  said  over  what 
Miss  Alice  say.  Can't  fool  dis  chile." 

This  insinuation  Uncle  Phil  felt  constrained  to 
answer,  and  with  an  injured  air  he  replied  : 

"  Kin  read,  too,  for  don't  you  mind  liow't  Miss  Alice 
say.  '  Won't  be  here  to  day,'  and  it's  writ  on  the 
paper,  '  Comin'  to-morry.'  "  And,  fully  satisfied  that 
he  had  convinced  his  audience,  Uncle  Phil  hastened 
off,  ere  Hetty  had  time  for  further  argument'.  So  cer- 
tain was  Phil  that  Alice's  surmises  were  correct  and 
the  telegram  interpreted  aright,  and  so  anxious  withal 
to  prove  himself  sure,  that  he  would  not  go  to  Frank- 
fort, as  he  proposed  doing. 

"  There  was  no  use  on't,"  he  said.  "  Marster 
wouldn't  be  thar  till  to-morry,"  and  he  whiled  away 
the  afternoon  at  leisure. 

But  alas  for  Uncle  Phil.  Mrs.  Warren  had  made  a 
mistake  in  Frederic's  last  letter,  the  young  man  writing 
he  should  be  home  on  theloth,  whereas  she  had  read 
it  the  iTth;  afterward,  Frederic  had  decided  to  leave 
Riverside  one  day  earlier,  and  he  telegraphed  from 


HOME   AGAIN.  221 

Cincinnati  for  Phil  to  meet  him.  Finding  neither 
carriage  nor  servant  in  waiting,  lie  hired  a  conveyance, 
and  about  fonr  o'clock  P.  M.  from  every  cabin  door 
tli ere  came  the  joyful  cry — 

"  Marster  Frederic  has  come." 

"Told  you  so,"  said  Hetty,  with  an  exultant  glance 
at  Uncle  Phil,  who  wisely  made  no  reply,  but  hast- 
ened with  the  rest  to  tell  his  master,  "  How  d've  ?" 

"  How  is  it  that  some  one  did  not  meet  me?"  Fred- 
eric asked,  after  the  first  noisy  outbreak  had  somewhat 
subsided.  "  Didn't  you  get  the  despatch  ?" 

The  negroes  looked  at  Phil,  who  stammered  out — 

"  Yes,  we  done  got  it,  but  dem  ole  iron  specs  of 
mine  is  mighty  nigh  wore  out — can't  see  in  'em  at  all, 
and  I  road  *  to-morry'  instead  of  '  to-day.' ': 

The  loud  shout  which  followed  this  excuse  enlight- 
ened Frederic  as  to  the  true  state  of  the  case,  and  lie, 
too,  joined  in.  the  laugh,  telling  the  crest-fallen  Phil 
that  "  he  should  turely  have  a  new  pair  of  silver  specs 
which  would  read  '  to-day'  instead  of  '  to-morry.' ': 

"But  where  is  Alice  ?"  he  continued.  "  Why  don't 
she  come  to  greet  me  ?" 

"Sure 'nough,"  returned  Dinah.  "  "Wh-ar  can  she 
be,  when  she  was  so  tierce  to  have  yon  come  ?  Reck- 
on she's  up  in  the  best  charinber  she's  been  fixin'  up 
for  soinethin',  she  wouldn't  tell  what." 

"I'll  go  and  see,"  said  Frederic,  starting  in  quest 
of  the  little  girl,  who,  as  Dinah  had  conjectured,  was 
in  the  front  chamber — the  one  prepared  with  so  much 
care  tor  Marian. 

She  had  been  sitting  by  the  window  when  she 
heard  the  sound  of  wheels  coining  up  the  avenue. — 
Then  the  joyful  cry  of  "  Marster's  comin',"  carne  to 
her  quick  ear,  and,  starting  up,  she  bent  her  head  to 
listen  for  another  voice — a  voice  she  had  not  heard  for 
many  a  weary  month.  But  she  listened  in  vain,  for 
Marian  was  not  there.  Gradually  she  became  con- 
vinced of  the  fact,  and,  laying  her  face  on  the  window- 
sill,  she  was  weeping  bitterly  wheu  Frederic  caine  in. 


222  HOME   AGAIN". 

Pausing  for  a  moment  in  the  door,  he  glanced  aroui  di 
first  at  the  well  remembered  chair;  tiien  at  the  books 
upon  the  table,  then  at  the  flowers,  and  then  he  knew 
why  all  this  liad  been  done. 

"I  would  that  it  might  have  been  so,"  he  thought, 
and  going  to  the  weeping  Alice  he  lifted  up  her  head 
and  pushing  her  hair  from  her  forehead,  whispered  to 
her  soltly,  "  Darling,  was  it  for  Marian  you  gathered 
all  these  flowers  ?" 

"  Yes,  Frederic,  for  Marian,"  and  Alice  sobbed 
aloud. 

Taking  her  in  his  lap,  Frederic  replied,  "  Did  you 
think  I  would  bring  her  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  had  found  her,  and  I  was  so 
glad.  What  made  you  write  me  that?" 

"Alice  I  did  find  her,"  returned  Frederic  ;  "  I  have 
seen  her,  I  have  talked  with  her.  Marian  is  alive." 

At  these  words,  so  decidedly  spoken,  the  blind  eyes 
flashed  up  into  Frederic's  face  eagerly,  wistfully,  as  if 
they  fain  would  burst  their  vail  of  darkness  and  see  if 
he  told  her  truly. 

"Is  it  true  ?  Oh,  Frederic,  you  are  not  deceiving 
me  ?  I  can't  bear  any  more  disappointment,"  and 
Alice's  face  and  lips  were  as  white  as  ashes,  as  she 
proceeded  further  to  question  Frederic,  who  told  her 
of  the  blue-eyed  girl  wiio,  just  as  he  was  treading  the 
brink  of  the  river  of  death,  had  come  to  him  and  called 
him  back  to  life  by  her  kind  acts  and  words  of  love. 

"She  had  a  sweet,  childish  face,"  said  he,  "fairer, 
sweeter  than  Marian's  when  she  went  away — but  Ma- 
rian must  have  changed;  for  I  knew  that  this  was 
she." 

Then  he  told  her  of  her  sudden  disappearance  when 
Isabel  came — of  his  .fruitless  eflbrts  to  find  her,  and 
how  while  searching  for  her,  he  had  met  another  girl, 
whose  hands  reminded  him  of  those  which  he  Lad  felt 
BO  many  times  upon  his  brow. 

"  Wasn't  that  Marian?"  said  Alice,  who  had  forgot- 
ten her  grief  in  listening. 


HOME   AGAIN.  223 

There  was  a  mournful  pathos  in  the  tone  of  his 
voice,  and  it  emboldened  Alice  to  ask  another  ques- 
tion. 

"  Frederic,"  she  began,  and  her  little  hand  played 
with  his  hair,  as  it  always  did  when  she  was  uncertain 
as  to  how  her  remarks  would  be  received,  "Frederic, 
ain't  you  loving  Marian  a  heap  more  than  you  did 
when  she  went  away  ?" 

Frederic  did  not  hesitate  a  moment  ere  replying, 
"  Yea,  darling,  I  am,  for  that  young  girl  crept  away 
down  into  my  heart  where  Marian  ought  to  have  been, 
before  I  asked  her  to  be  rny  wife  ;  and  I  shall  find  her 
too.  I  only  stopped  long  enough  to  come  home  for 
you.  The  house  is  ready  at  Pdverside,  and  your  room 
is  charming." 

"  Will  Isabel  be  there?"  was  Alice's  next  inquiry, 
and  Frederic  answered  by  telling  her  all  he  knew  of 
the  matter. 

He  did  not  say  he  was  beginning  to  understand  her 
and  consequently  to  like  her  less,  but  Alice  inferred  as 
much,  and  with  this  fear  removed  from  her  mind,  she 
could  endure  patiently  to  become  again  a  pupil  of  Miss 
Hunfrington.  For  a  long  time  they  talked  together, 
wondering  who  wrote  the  letler  purporting  to  have 
come  from  Sarah  Green,  and  why  it  had  been  written. 
Then  Frederic  told  her  of  the  peddler  Ben,  and  of  his 
sister,  Marian  Grey,  who,  at  that  moment,  had  his 
daguerreotype  in  her  keeping.  Of  Marian  Grey  Alice 
did  not  say  to  him  "She  is  our  Marian,"  for  she  had 
not  such  a  thought,  but  she  seemed  interested  both  in 
her  and  in  Ben,  and  when  told  that  the  latter  had  asked 
for  her  picture  she  consented  at  once,  saying  he  should 
have  it  as  soon  as  they  were  settled  at  Riverside. 

"I  would  not  tell  any  one  that  Marian  was  with  me," 
said  Frederic,  as  their  conversation  drew  to  a  close; 
'•  I  had  rather  the  subject  should  not  be  discussed  until 
I  really  find  her  and  bring  her  home ;  then  we  will  set 
apart  a  day  of  general  thanksgiving." 

To  this  suggestion  Alice  readily  assented,  and  as  the 


224  HOME    AGAIN. 

supper  bell  just  then  rang,  and  tlie  two  went  together 
to  the  delicious  repast,  which  Dinah  had  prepared 
with  unusual  care,  insisting  the  while  that  "  thar  was 
nothin'  fit  for  nobody  to  eat." 

Frederic,  however,  whose  appetite  was  increasing 
each  day,  convinced  her  to  the  contrary,  and  while 
watching  him  as  he  did  justice  to  her  viands,  the  old 
negress  thought  to  herself,  "  'Clar  for't,  how  he  does 
eat.  I  should  know  he  come  from  Yankee  land.  You 
can  allus  tell  'em,  the  way  they  crams,  when  they  get 
whar  thar  is  somethin'." 

The  news  of  Frederic's  return  spread  rapidly,  and 
that  night  he  received  calls  from  several  of  his  neigh- 
bors, together  with  an  invitation  to  Agnes  Gibson's 
weddfng,  which  was  to  take  place  in  a  few  days.  In 
the  invitation  Alice  \vas  included,  and  though  Dinah 
demurred,  saying  that  "  trundle-bed  truck  or'to  stay  at 
home,"  Alice  ventured  to  differ  from  her,  and  at  the 
appointed  time  went  with  Frederic  to  the  party,  which 
was  splendid  in  all  its  parts,  having  been  got  up  with 
a  direct  reference  to  the  newspaper  articles  which  were 
sure  to  be  published  concerning  it.  Agnes,  of  course, 
was  charming  in  white  satin,  point  lace,  orange  flow- 
ers, flowing  vail,  and  all  other  et  ceteras  which  com- 
plete the  dress  of  a  fashonable  j>ride.  And  the  bride- 
groom— poor  old  man — looked  very  well  in  his  new 
suit  of  broadcloth,  even  if  his  knees  did  shake — not 
from. fear,  however,  but  as  one  of  the  guests  remarked, 
"  Because  it  was  a  way  they'd  had  for  several  years !' 
The  top  of  his  head  was  bald,  it  is  true,  and  his  hair' 
as  white  as  snow,  but  for  every  silver  thread  Agnes 
knew  there  was  a  golden  eagle  in  his  purse,  and  this 
consoled  her  somewhat,  though  it  did  not  prevent  her 
from  watching  jealously  to  see  if  any  one  was  talking 
of  the  palsied  man,  her  husband.  Her  expected  present 
from  Isabel  had  never  come,  and  the  three  fiah  knives, 
ranged  in  a  row,  looked  as  if  two  of  them,  at  least, 
were  rather  more  ornamental  than  useful,  as  did  also 
the  four  card  baskets,  and  three  gold  thimbles,  which 


HOME   AGAIN1.  225 

occupied  a  conspicuous  piece.  To  Frederic,  Agnes 
was  especially  gracious,  asking  him  numberless  ques- 
tions concerning  her  "  dear  friend,"  and  saying  "she 
hoped  to  meet  her  in  her  travels,  as  they  were  going 
North  and  were  intending  to  spend  the  Summer  at 
Saratoga,  Newport,  and  Nahant.  I  thought  once  you 
would  be  taking  your  bridal  tour  about  this  time,"  she 
said  to  him,  when  several  were  standing  near. 

"  I  assure  you  I  had  no  such  idea,"  was  Frederic's 
reply,  and  Agnes  continued,  "^Indeed  I  supposed  you 
were  engaged,  of  course." 

"  Then  you  supposed  wrong,"  he  answered,  glad  of 
this  public  opportunity  to  contradict  a  story  he  knew 
had  gained  a  wide  circulation.  "  I  esteem  Miss  Hunt- 
ington  as  a  friend  and  distant  relative,  but  I  certainly 
have  no  intention  whatever  of  marking  her  my  wife." 

Frequently,  during  the  evening,  he  was  asked  if  he 
had  found  any  clue  to  Sarah  Green  or  her  letter;  and  " 
as  lie  could  in  all  sincerity  reply  in  the  negative,  no 
one  guessed  that  instead  of  Sarah  Green  he  had  found 
his  wife — only,  however  to  lose  her  again. 

"  But  he  would  find  her,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  as 
he  looked  at  the  ill-matched  bride  and  groom,  he  could 
not  forebear  wishing  that  it  were  himself  and  l^arian. 
He  would  stay  by  her  now,  he  thought,  and  when  it 
grew  dark  in  the  parlor  instead  of  suffering  her  to  go 
away  alone  and  read  the  fatal  letter,  he  would  draw 
her  to  his  side,  and  telling  her  of  its  contents,  would 
sue  for  her  forgiveness,  and  offer  to  her  love  in  return 
for  the  fraud  imposed  upon  her. 

It  was  a  pleasant  picture  Frederic  drew  that  night 
of  what  his  bridal  might  have  been,  and  so  absorbed 
was  he  in  it  that  when,  as  they  were  going  home,  Alice 
with  a  yawn  said  to  him,  "  Wasn't  it  so  tiresome  hear- 
ing those  young  folks  say  such  foolish  things  to  each 
other,  and  hear:ng  the  old  ones  talk  about  their  ser- 
vants?" he  replied,  "why  no,  child,  I  spent  a  most  de- 
lightful evening." 

"I — don't— see — how  you  could,"  was  the  drowsy 
10* 


226  HOME   AGAIN. 

answer,  and  in  a  moment  more  Alice  lay  upon  the  car- 
riage cushions  fast  asleep  ! 

It  was  nearly  three  weeks  after  this  party  ere  Fred- 
eric's arrangements  for  leaving  Kentucky  were  entirely 
completed,  and  it  was  not  until  the  latter  part  of  July 
that  he  finally  started  for  his  new  home.  The  lament- 
ations of  the  negroes  were  noisy  in  the  extreme, 
though  far  more  moderate  than  they  would  have  been 
if  their  master  had  not  said  that  it  was  very  proba"ble  he 
should  return  in  the  Autumn,  and  merely  make  River- 
side a  Summer  residence.  If  he  found  Marian  he 
should  come  back,  of  course,  he  thought,  but  he  did 
not  deem  it  best  to  raise  hopes  which  might  never  be 
realized,  so  he  said  nothing -of  her  to  the  blacks  who 
supposed  of  course  she  was  dead. 

The  parting  betwee/i  Dinah  and  Alice  was  a  bitter 
one,  the  former  hugging  the  little  girl  to  her  bosom 
and  wondering  how  k%  Marster  Frederic  'spected  a  child 
what  had  never  waited  on  itself  even  to  fotch  a  drop 
of  water,  could  get  aloni:  way  off  dar  whar  thar  warn't 
nary  nigger  nor  nothin'  but  a  pack  o'  low  flung  Irish. 
Order  'eiu  'round,"  she  said  to  Alice,  wiping  her  eyes 
with  her  checked  apron,  u  order  'em  round  jist  like 
they  warn't  white.  Make  'em  think  you  be  somebody. 
Say  your  pra'rs  evey  night — war  your  white  cambric 
wrappers  in  the  mornin',  and  don't  on  no  count  catch 
any  poor  folksy's  rnarners  'mong  them  Yankees  for  I 
shouldn't  get  my  nateral  sleep  o'  nights,  till  you  got 
shet  of  'em,  and — "  lowering  her  voice,  "  if  so  be  that 
you  tell  any  of  the  quality  ?bout  us  blacks,  s'posin  you 
you  kinder  set  me  'bove  Hetty  and  them  Higginses, 
bein'  that  I  the  same  as  nussed  von." 

To  nearly  all  these  requirements  Alice  promised 
compliance,  and  then,  as  tiie  carriage  was  waiting,  sho 
followed  Frederic  down  to  the  gare,  and  soon  both 
were  lost  to  tiie  sight  of  the  tearful  group  which  from 
the  piazza  of  Redstone  Hall,  gazed  wistfully  after 
them. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  a  sultry  Summer  day  when 


HOME   AGAIN.  227 

the  travelers  reached  Riverside,  where  thev  found  Mrs 
Huntington  waiting  to  receive  them.  Frederic  had 
written,  apprising  her  oi  the  time  when  he  should 
probably  arrive,  and  asking  her  to  be  there  if  possible. 
Something,  too,  he  had  said  of  Isabel,  but  that  young 
lady  was  not  in  the  most  amiable  mood,  and  as  she 
was  comfortably  domesticated  with  another  distant 
relative,  she  declined  going  to  Frederic  until  he  came 
to  some  understanding,  or  at  least  manifested  a  greater 
desire  to  have  her  with  him  than  his  recent  letters  in- 
dicated. Accordingly  her  mother  went  alone,  and 
Frederic  was  not  sorry,  while  Alice  was  delighted. 
Everything  seemed  so  bright  and  airy,  she  said,  just  as 
though  a  load  were  taken  from  them,  and  like  a  bird 
she  flitted  about  the  house,  for  she  needed  to  pass 
through  a  room  but  once  ere  she*was  familiar  with  its 
location,  and  could  find  it  easily.  With  her  own  cozy 
chamber  she  was  especially  pleased,  and  in  less  than 
half  an  hour  her  little  hands  had  examined  every  ar- 
ticle of  furniture,  even  to  the  vases  which  held  the 
withered  blossoms  gathered  so  long  ago. 

''Somebody  must  have  put  these  here  for  me,"  she 
said,  and  then  her  mind  went  back  to  the  morning 
when  she,  too,  had  gathered  flowers  for  her  expected 
friend,  and  she  wondered  much  who  had  done  a  simi- 
lar service  tor  her. 

'"It's  me,"  returned  Mrs.  Russell,  who  was  still  stay- 
ing at  Riverside.  "  Now  I  wonder  if  you  found  them 
dried-up  things  so  soon,"  she  continued,  advancing  in- 
to room.  "  I  should  of  hove  them  out,  only  that  the  girl 
who  tixed  'em  made  me  promise  to  leave  'em  till  yon 
came.  'Fears  like  she  b'lieyed  you'd  think  more  on 
'em  for  knowin'  that  she  picked  'em." 

"  Girl !  Mrs.  Russell .  What  girl  ?"  and  Alice's  eyes 
lighted  up,  for  she  thought  at  once  of  Marian,  who 
would  know  of  course  ahput  the  house,  and  as  she  would 
naturally  wish  to  see  it,  she  had  come  some  day  and 
left  these  flowers,  which  would  be  so  dear  to  her  if  she 


228  HOME   AGAIN. 

found  her  suspicions  correct.  u  Who  was  the  girl  ?" 
she  asked  again,  and  Mrs.  Russell  replied  : 

"  I  don't  remember  her  name,  but  she  went  all  over 
the  house,  fixing  things  in  Mr.  Raymond's  room,  which 
I  didn't  think  was  very  marnerly,  bein'  that  'twaVt 
none  o'  hern.  Then  she  come  in  here  and  set  ever  so 
long  before  she  picked  these  posys,  which  she  told  me 
not  to  throw  away." 

"Yes,  it  was  Marian,"  came  involuntarily  from 
Alice's  lips,  while  the  woman,  catching  at  the  name 
rejoined  : 

"  That  sounds  like  what  he  called  her — that  tall 
spooky  chap,  her  brother— Ben  something.  She  said 
he  had  seen  you  at  the  South." 

"  Oh,  Ben  Butterworth.  It  was  his  adopted  sister ;" 
and  Alice  turned  away,  feeling  greatly  disappointed 
that  Marian  Grey,  and  not  Marian  Lindsey,  had  arran- 
ged those  flowers  for  her. 

This  allusion  to  Ben  reminded  Alice  of  his  request 
for  her  picture,  and  one  morning,  when  Frederic  was 
going  to  New  York,  she  asked  to  go  with  him  and  sit 
for  her  daguerreotype.  There  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  not,  and  in  an  hour  or  two,  she  was  listening, 
half  stunned,  to  the  noise  and  uproar  of  the  city. 

"  Oh,  Frederic,"  she  cried,  holding  fast  to  his  hand, 
as  they  made  their  way  up  town — "  oh,  Frederic,  I 
won.de r  Marian  didn't  get  crazy  and  die.  I'm  sure  I 
should.  I'm  almost  distracted  now.  Where  are  all 
those  people  and  carts  going  that  I  hear  running  by  us 
so  fast,  and  what  makes  them  keep  pushing  me  so  hard. 
Oh,  dear,  I  wish  I  hadn't  come!"  and  as  some  one  just 
then  jostletl  her  more  rudely  than  usual,  Alice  began 
to  cry. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Freredric  soothingly,  "  we  aro 
almost  there,  and  we  will  take  a  carriage  back.  Folks 
can't  push  you  then ;"  and  in  stooping  down  to  comfort 
the  little  girl,  he  failed  to  see  the  graceful  figure  pass- 
ing so  near  him  that  the  hem  of  her  dress  fluttered 
against  his  boot 


HOME    AGAIN.  229 

They  had  come  upon  each  other  so  suddenly  that 
there  was  not  time  for  the  brown  vail  to  be  dropped, 
neither  was  it  needful,  for  so  absorbed  was  Frederic 
with  his  charge  that  he  neither  knew  nor  dreamed  how 
near  to  Marian  Lindsty  he  had  been. 

Alice's  tears  being  dried,  they  kept  on  their  way, 
and  when  the  picture  was  taken,  Frederic  did  it  up 
tind  directing  it  to  Ben  Butterworth,  sent  it  to  the  of- 
lice,  then  calling  a  carriage,  he  took  Alice,  as  he  had 
promised,  all  over  the  great  city.  And  Alice  enjoyed 
it  very  much,  laying  back  on  the  soft  cushions,  and 
knowing  that  no  one  could  touch  her  of  all  the  noisy 
throng  she  heard  so  distinctly,  but  could  not  see.  It 
was  a  day  long  talked  of  by  the  blind  girl,  and  she 
asked  Mrs.  Huntington  to  write  a  description  of  it  to 
the  negroes,  who  she  knew  fancied  that  Louisville  was 
the  largest  city  in  the  world. 

Not  long  after  this,  something  which  Mrs.  Hunting- 
ton  said  about  her  daughter  determined  Frederic  to 
visit  her  and  make  the  explanation  \vhich  he  felt  it  his 
duty  to  make,  for  he  knew  he  had  given  her  some  rea- 
son to  think  he  intended  asking  her  to  be  his  wife  He 
accordingly  feigned  some  excuse  for  going  to  New  Ha- 
ven, and  one  morning  found  himself  at  the  door  where 
Isabel  was  stopping. 

"  Give  her  this,"  he  said,  handing  his  card  to  the  ser- 
vant \vho  carried  it  at  once  to  the  delighted  young  lady. 

"  Frederic  Raymond,"  read  Isabel.  "  Oh,  yes.  Tell 
him  IM  be  down  in  a  moment,"  and  she  proceeded  to 
arrange  her  hair  a  little  more  becomingly,  and  made 
several  changes  in  her  dress,  so  that  the  one  minute 
was  nearly  fif.  een  ere  she  started  for  the  parlor,  where 
Frederic  was  rather  dreading  her  coming,  lor  he  scarce- 
ly knew  what  he  wished  to  say. 

Half  timidly  she  greeted  him  as  a  bashful  maiden  is 
supposed  to  meet  her  lover,  and  seating  herself  at  a 
respectful  distance  from  him,  she  asked  numberless 
questions  concerning  his  health,  her  numberless  friends 


230  HOME    AGAIN. 

in  Kentucky,  her  mother,  and  dear  little  Alice,  \vho, 
Bhe  presumed,  did  not  miss  her  much. 

"  Your  mother's  presence  reminds  us  of  you  very  of- 
ten, of  course,"  returned  Frederic,  "  but  you  know  we 
can  get  accustomed  to  almost  anything,  aiid  Alice 
seems  very  happy." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Isabel.  "  Yon  will  all  forget  me,  I 
suppose,  even  to  mother — but  for  me  I  have  not  been 
quite  contented  since  I  left  Kentucky.  I  thought  it 
tiresome  to  teach,  and  perhaps  was  sometimes  impa- 
tient and  unreasonable,  but  I  have  often  wished  myself 
back  again.  I  don't  seem  to  be  living  for  anything 
now,"  and  Isabel's  black  eyes  studied  the  pattern  of 
the  carpet  quite  industriously. 

This  long  speech  called  for  a  reply,  and  Frederic 
said,  "  You  would  not  care  to  come  back  again,  would 
you  2" 

"  Why,  yes,"  returned  Isabel;  "I  would  rather  do 
that  than  nothing." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence,  while  Frederic  fidgeted 
in  his  chair  and  Isabel  fidgeted  in  hers,  until  at  last  the 
former  said  : 

"I  owe  you  an  explanation,  Isabel,  and  I  have  come 
to  make  it.  Do  you  remember  our  conversation  in  the 
parlor,  and  to  what  it  was  apparently  tending,  when 
Ve  were  interrupted  by  Alice  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Isabel,  "  and  I  have  thought  of  it  so 
often,  wondering  if  you  were  in  earnest,  or  if  you  were 
merely  trifling  with  my  feelings." 

"  I  certainly  had  no  intention  of  trifling  with  yon," 
returned  Frederic  :  "  neither  do  I  know  as  I  was  really 
in  earnest.  At  all  events  it  is  fortunate  for  us  both 
that  Alice  came  in  as  she  did ;"  and  having  said  so 
much,  Frederic  could  now  look  calmly  upon  a  face 
which  changed  from  a  serene  Summer  sky  to  a  dark, 
lightning-laden  thunder-cloud  as  he  told  her  the  story 
he  had  came  to  tell. 

In  her  terrible  disappointment,  Isabel  so  far  forgot 
herself  as  to  lose  her  temper  entirely,  and  Frederic, 


HOME    AGAIN.  231 

i 

while  listening  to  her  as  she  raited  at  him  for  what  she 
called  his  perfidy,  wondered  how  he  ever  could  have 
thought  her  womanly  or  good. 

"  It  was  false  that  Marian  was  living,  and  had  taken 
care  of  him  when  feick,"  she  s"aid.  "  He  could  not  im- 
pose that  story  upon  her,  and  he  only  wished  to  do  it 
because  he  fancied  that  he  was  in  some  way  pledged 
to  her  and  wished  for  an  excuse,  but  he  .might  have 
saved  himself  the  trouble,  for  even  had  Alice  not  ap 
peared  she  should  have  told  him  No.  She  liked  him 
once,  she  would  admit,  but  there  was  nothing  like  liv- 
ing beneath  the  same  roof  to  make  one  person  tire  01 
another,  and  even  if  she  were  not  disgusted  with  him 
before,  she  should  have  become  so  while  taking  care 
of  him  in  New  York,  and  so  she  wrote  to  Agnes  Gib- 
son, wiio,  she  heard,  had  spread  the  news  that  she  was 
engaged,  though  she  had  no  authority  for  doing  so,  but 
it  was  just  like  the  tattling  mischief-maker  1" 

"Are  you  through?"  Frederic  coolly  asked,  when 
she  had  finished  speaking.  "  If  you  are  I  will  consider 
our  interview  at  an  end. 

Isabel  did  not  reply  and  he  arose  to  go,  saying  to 
her  as  he  reached  the  door,  "  I  did  not  come  here  to 
quarrel  with  you,  Bell,  I  wish  still  to  be  your  friend, 
and  if  you  are  ever  in  trouble  come  to  me  as  to  a  bro- 
ther. .Marian  will,  I  trust,  be  with  me  then ;  but  she 
will  be  kind  to  you,  for  'tis  her  nature." 

'•  Plague  on  that  Marian,"  was  Isabel's  unlady-like 
thought  as  the  door  closed  after  Frederic.  "I  wonder 
how  many  times  she's  coming  to  life  1  How  I  wanted 
to  charge  him  with  his  meanness  in  marrying  her  for- 
tune, but  as  that  is  a  secret  between  the  two,  he  would 
have  suspected  me  of  treachery.  The  villain  1  I  be- 
lieve I  hate  him — and  only  to  think  how  those  folks  in 
Kentucky  will  laugh.  But  it's  all  Agnes'  doings. 
IShe  inveigled  more  out  of  me  than  there  was  to  tell, 
and  then  repeated  it  to  suit  herself.  The  jade!  I 
hope  she's  happy  with  that  old  man" — and  at  this 
point  Isabel  broke  down  in  a  flood  of  tears,  in  the 


232  HOME     AGAIN. 

midst  of  which  the  door  bell  rang  again,  and  hurrying 
up  the  stairs  site  listened  to  the  names,  which  this  time 
were  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rivers,"  (Agnes  and  her  husband) 
and  they  asked  for  her. 

Drying  her  tears,  and  bathing  her  eyes  until  the 
redness  was  gone,  Isabel  went  down  to  meet  the  "  tat- 
tling mischief-maker,"  embracing  her  very  affection- 
ately, and  telling  her  how  delighted  she  was  to  see  her 
again,  and  how  well  she  was  looking. 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  embark  on  the  sea  of  matri- 
mony yourself,  if  you  think  it  such  a  beautifier,"  said 
Agnes. 

"  Me  ?"  returned  Isabel,  with  a  toss  of  her  head  ;  "  I 
thought  I  wrote  you  that  I  had  given  up  that  foolish 
fancy." 

"indeed,  so  you  did,"  said  Agnes,  "  but  I  had  for- 
gotten it,  and  when  I  saw  Mr.  Raymond  at  the  Ton- 
tine, where  we  are  stopping,  I  supposed  of  course  he 
had  come  to  see  you,  and  I  said  to  Mr.  Rivers  it  really 
was  too  bad,  for  from  what  he  said  at  our  wedding  I 
fancied  there  was  nothing  in  it,  and  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  take  you  with  us  to  Florida,  as  I  once  talked 
of  doing.  Husband's  sister  wants  a  teacher  for  her 
children,  don't  shr ,  dear  ?" 

Mr.  Rivers  was  about  to  answer  in  the  affirmative, 
but  ere  he  could  speak  Isabel  chimed  in,  "  Oh,  you 
kind,  thoughtful  soul.  Let  me  go  with  you  now ;  do. 
Nothing  could  please  me  more.  I  have  missed  your 
society  so  much,  and  am  so  unhappy  here  !"  and  in 
the  black  eyes  there  was  certainly  a  tear,  which  in- 
stantly touched  the  heart  of  the  sympathetic  old  man 
who  anticipated  his  wife's  reply,  l>y  saying,  "  Certainly 
you  shail  go,  if  you  like.  You'll  be  company  for  Mrs. 
Rivers,  and  if  I  am  in  my  dotage,  as  some  say,  I've 
sense  enough  to  know  that  she  can't  be  contented  all 
the  time  with  her  grandfather.-  Eh,  Aggie?"  and 
chucked  his  bride  under  the  chin. 

"  Disgusting  1"  thought  Isabel. 

"  Old  fool  1"  thought  Agnes,  who  was  really  rather 


HOME   AGAIN.  233 

pleased  with  the  idea  of  having  Isabel  go  with  her  to 
her  new  home,  for  though  she  did  not  love  her  dear 
friend,  she  rather  enjoyed  her  company,  and  she  felt 
that  anybody  was  acceptable  who  would  stand  as  a 
third  person  between  herself  and  the  grandfather  she 
had  chosen. 

The  more  she  thought  of  the  plan  the  better  she  wa8 
pleased  with  it,  and  before  parting  the  whole  was  ami- 
cably adjusted.  Early  in  October,  Isabel  was  to  join 
her  friend  in  Kentucky,  and  go  with  her  from  thence 
to  Florida,  where  she  was  either  to  remain  with  Mrs. 
Kivers,  or  to  teach  in  the  family  of  Mrs.  McGregor, 
Mr.  Rivers'  sister.  The  former  was  what  Isabel  in- 
tended to  do,  for  she  thoroughly  disliked  teaching, 
and  if  she  could  live  without  it,  she  would.  Still  she 
did  not  so  express  herself  to  her  visitors,  and  she  ap- 
peared so  gracious  and  so  grateful  withal,  that,  the 
heart  of  the  bridegroom  was  wholly  won,  and  after  his 
return  to  their  hotel,  he  extolled  her  so  highly  that 
Agnes  began  to  pout,  a  circumstance  which  pleased 
her  fatherly  spouse,  inasmuch  as  it  augured  more 
affection  for  himself  than  he  had  supposed  her  to  ^pos- 
sess. 

The  story  of  Isabel's  intended  trip  to  Florida  was 
not  long  in  reaching  Rnpolph  McVicar,  who  had  been 
wondering  why  something  didn't  occur,  and  if  he  were 
really  to  be  disappointed  after  all. 

"  1  wasted  that  paper  and  ink  for  nothing,"  was  his 
mental  comment  when  he  heard  from  her  own  lips  that 
Isabul  was  going ;  for,  presuming  upon  his  former  ac- 
quaintance, he  finally  ventured  to  call  upon  her, 
demeaning  himself  so  well  that,  like  her  mother,  Isabel 
began  to  think  he  had  reformed. 

btill  there  was  an  expression  in  his  eye  which  sho 
did  not  like,  and  when  at  last  lie  left  her,  she  expe- 
rienced a  feeling  of  relief,  as  if  a  spell  had  been 
removed.  After  her  recent  interview  with  Frederic 
she  would  not  go  to  his  house,  so  her  mother  went  to 
New  Haven,  staying  with  her  daughter  a  week  and 


HOME    AGAIN. 

/ 

then  returning  to  Riverside,  while  Isabel  started  for 
Kentucky,  where,  as  she  had  expected,  she  met  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rivers,  and  was  soon  on  her  way  to 
Florida. 

When  sure  that  Isabel  was  gone,  and  that  Sarah 
Green's  letter  had  indeed  been  written  in  vain,  Ru- 
dolph, who  cared  nothing  now  whether  Marian  were 
ever  discovered  to  her  husband  or  not,  went  to  New 
York  and  embarked  on  a  whaling  voyage,  as  he  had 
long  thought  of  doing,  fancying  that  the  roving  life  of 
a  seaman  would  suit  his  restless  nature. 

And  now,  with  Rudolph  on  the  sea,  with  Isabel  in 
Florida,  with  Marian  at  school,  and  Frederic  at  River- 
side, we  draw  a  vail  over  the  different  characters  of 
our  story,  nor  lift  it  again  until  three  years  have  passed 
away,  bringing  changes  to  all,  but  to  none  a  greater 
change  than  to  the  so-called  Marian  Grey. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   GOVEBNESS. 

IT  was  a  bright  September  afternoon,  and  the  dense 
foliage  of  the  trees  looked  as  fresh  and  green  as  when 
watered  by  the  Summer  showers,  save  here  and  there 
a  faded  leaf  came  rustling  to  the  ground,  whispering 
to  those  at  whose  feet  it  fell  of  the  Winter  which  was 
hastening  on,  and  whose  breath  even  now  was  on  the 
northern  seas.  Softly  the  Autumnal  sunlight  fell  upon 
the  earth,  and  the  birds  sang  as  gayly  in  the  trees  as 
if  there  were  no  hearts  bereaved — no  small,  low  rooms 
where  all  was  darkness  and  gloom — no  humble  pro- 
cession winding  slowly  through  the  crowded  streets 
and  out  into  the  country,  where,  in  a  new-made  grave, 
a  mother's  love  was  buried,  while  the  mourners,  two 
in  number,  a  young  man  and  a  girl,  held  each  other's 
hand  in  token  that. they  were  bound  together  by  a 
common  sorrow.  Not  a  word  was  said  by  either  ;  and 
when  the  solemn  burial  rite  was  over,  they  returned 
as  silently  to  the  carriage,  then  were  driven  back  to 
their  desolate  home — the  tenement  where  Frederic 
Raymond  had  watched  the  curtained  window  and  the 
geranium  growing  there. 

For  many  dnys  that  window  had  been  darkened, 
just  as  it  was  when  Marian  Grey  lay  there  with  the 
fever  in  her  veins  ;  but^it  was  open  now,  and  the  west 
wind  came  stealing  in,  purifying  the  room  from  the 
faint  sickening  smell  of  coffins  and  of  death,  for  the 
Destroyer  had  been  there.  And  when  the  mourners 


236  THE    GOVERNESS. 

came  back  from  the  grave  in  the  country,  one  threw 
himself  upon  the  lounge,  and  burying  his  face  in  the 
cushions,  sobbed  aloud  : 

"  Oh,  Marian,  it's  terrible  to  be  an  orphan  and  have 
no  mother."  . 

"  Yes,  Ben,  'tis  terrible,"  and  Marian's  tears  drop- 
ped on  the  hair  of  the  honest-hearted  Ben. 

Up  to  this  hour  he  had  restrained  his  grief,  but  now 
that  he  was  alone  with  Marian,  he  wept  on  until  the 
sun  went  down  and  the  night  shadows  were  creeping 
into  the  room.  Then  lifting  up  his  head,  he  said,  "  It 
is  so  dark — so  dismal  now — and  the  hardest  of  all  is 
the  givin'  up  our  dear  old  home  where  mother  lived 
so  long,  and  the  thinkin'  maybe  you'll  forget  me  when 
you  live  with  that  grand  lady." 

"  Forget  you  !  Oh,  Ben,  I  never  can  forget  how 
much  you  have  done  for  me,  denying  yourself  every- 
thing for  my  sake,"  said  Marian,  while  Ben  continued, 
"  Nor  won't  you  be  ashamed  of  me  neither,  if  I  should 
come  sometimes  to  see  you  ?  I  should  die  if  I  could 
not  once  in  a  while  look  into  your  eyes  ;  and  you'll  let 
me  come,  won't  you,  Marian  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  she  replied,  continuing  after  a 
moment,  "  It  is  not  certain  yet  that  I  go  to  Mrs.  Shel- 
don's. I  have  not  answered  her  last  letter  because — 
You  know  what  we  talked  about  before  your  mother 
died  !" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  returned  Ben,  "  but  I  had  for- 
got it — my  heart  was  so  full  other  things.  I'll  go  out 
there  to-morrow.  I'd  rather  you  should  teach  at 
Kverside,  even  if  you'd  never  heard  of  Frederic,  than 
go  to  that  grand  lady,  who  might  think,  because  you 
was  a  governess,  that  you  wan't  fit  to  live  in  the  same 
house. 

"I  have  no  fears  of  that,"  said  Marian.  "Mrs. 
Harcourt  says  she  is  an  estimable  woman  ;  but  still,  I 
too,  would  rather  go  to  Riverside,  if  I  were  sure  Fred- 
eric would  not  know  me.  Do  you  think  there  is  any 
danger  ?" 


THE     GOVERNESS.  237 

"  JsTo,"  was  Ben's  decided  answer,  and  in  this  opin- 
ion Marian  herself  concurred,  for  she  knew  that  she 
had  changed  so  much  that  none  who  saw  her  when 
first  she  came  to  Mrs.  Bart's  would  recognize  her  now. 

About,  three  months  before  the  night  of  which  we 
are  writing,  she  had  been  graduated  at  Mrs.  Harcourt's 
school  with  every  possible  honor,  both  as  a  musician 
and  a  scholar.  There  had  never  been  her  equal  there 
before,  Mrs.  Harcourt  said,  and  when  her  friend,  Mrs, 
Sheldon,  who  lived  in  Springfield  Mass  ,  applied  to  her 
for  a  family  pupil,  she  warmly  recommended  her  fa- 
vorite pupil,  Marian  Grey,  frankly  stating,  however, 
that  she  was  of  humble  origin — that  her  adopted  mo- 
ther or  aunt  was  a  poor  sewing  woman,  and  her 
adopted  brother  a  peddler.  This,  however,  made  no 
difference  with  Mrs.  Sheldon,  and  several  letters  had 
passed  between  herself  and  Marian,  who  would  have 
accepted  the  liberal  offer  at  once,  but  for  a  lingering 
hope  that  Ben  would  carry  out  his  favorite  plan,  and 
procure  her  a  situation  as  teacher  at  Riverside.  She  had 
forgotten  what  she  once  said  about  learning  to  hate 
Frederic,  and  the  possibility  of  living  again  beneath 
the  some  roof  with  him  made  her  heart  beat  faster  than 
its  wont.  She  had  occasionally  met  him  in  the  street, 
and  once  she  was  sure  his  eye  had  rested  upon  her  in 
passing,  but  she  knew  by  its  expression  that  she  was 
not  recognized,  and  when  Ben  suggested  offering  her 
services  as  Alice's  governess  she  readily  consented. 

During  these  years  Ben  had  not  lost  sight  of  Frederic's 
movements,  though  it  so  chanced  that  they  had  met  but 
twice,  once  just  after  the  receipt  of  Alice's  picture, 
which  had  been  greeted  by  Marian  with  a  shower  of 
kisses  and  tears,  and  once  the  previous  Autumn,  when 
Frederic  was  about  returning  to  Kentucky,  for,  with  his 
changed  feelings  toward  Marian,  Mr.  Raymond  felt 
less  delicacy  in  using  her  money — less  aversion  to 
Redstone  Hall,  where  his  presence  was  really  needed, 
for  a  portion  of  the  year  at  least,  and  which  he  intend- 
ed making  his  Winter  residence. 


238  THE    GOVERNESS. 

But  he  was  at  Riverside  now,  and  Ben  was  about 
going  there  to  see  what  arrangements  could  be  made, 
when  his  mother's  sudden  death  caused  both  himself 
and  Marian  to  forget  the  subject  until  the  night  after 
the  burial,  when,  without  a  moment  forgetting  the 
dead  or  the  dreary  blank  her  absence  made,  they  talked 
together  of  the  future,  and  decided  that  on  the  morrow 
Ben  should  go  to  Riverside  and  see  if  there  were  room 
in  Frederic's  house  for  Marian  Grey.  The  morning 
came,  and  at  an  early  hour  Ben  started,  bidding  Mari- 
an keep  up  her  spirits  as  he  was  sure  of  bringing  her 
good  tidings. 

Frederic  was  sitting  in  his  arm  chair,  which  stood 
near  the  window,  jnst  where  Marian  had  placed  it  three 
years  and  a  half  ago.  Not  that  it  had  never  been 
moved  since  that  April  morning,  for,  freed  from  old 
Dinah's  surveillance,  Mrs.  lluntington,  who  was  still 
at  Riverside,  proved  herself  a  pattern  housekeeper,  and 
the  chair  had  probably  been  moved  a  thousand  times 
to  make  room  for  the  broom  and  brush,  but  it  was  in 
its  old  place  now,  and  Frederic  was  sitting  in  it,  think- 
ing of  Marian  and  his  hitherto  fruitless  efforts  at  find- 
ing her.  He  was  beginning  to  get  discouraged,  and 
still  each  time  he  went  to  the  city  he  thought  "  per- 
haps I  may  meet  her  to-day,"  and  each  night,  as  tho 
hour  for  his  return  drew  near,  Alice  waited  upon  the 
piazza  when  the  weather  was  tine,  and  by  the  window 
when  it  was  cold,  listening  intently  for  another  step 
than  Frederic's — a  step  which  never  came,  and  then 
Alice  grew  less  hopeful,  while  Marian  seemed  farther 
and  farther  away  as  month  after  month  went  by  bring- 
ing no  tidings  of  her.  Frederic  knew  that  she  must 
necessarily  have  changed  somewhat  from  the  Marian 
of  old,  for  she  was  a  woman  now,  but  he  should  readi- 
ly recognise  her,  he  said.  He  should  know  her  by  her 
peculiar  hair,  if  by  no  other  token.  So  when  his  eye 
once  rested  on  a  face  of  surpassing  sweetness,  shaded 
by  curls  of  soft  chestnut  hair,  which  in  the  sunlight 
wore  a  rich  red  tinge,  he  felt  a  glow  like  that  which 


THE    GOVERNESS.  239 

one  experiences  in  gazing  for  a  single  instant  on  some 
picture  of  rare  lovelinness  ;  then  the  picture  faded,  the 
graceful  figure  glided  by,  and  there  was  nothing  left 
to  tell  how,  by  stretching  forth  his  hand,  he  might  have 
grasped  his  long  lost  Marian.  Moments  there  were 
when  she  seemed  near  to  him,  almost  within  his  reach, 
and  such  a  moment  was  the  one  when  Mrs.  Hunting- 
ton  announced  Ben  Butterworth,  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  a  long  time. 

Involuntarily  he  started  np,  half  expecting  his  visi- 
tor had  come  to  tell  him  something  of  her.  But  when 
he  saw  the  crape  upon  Ben's  hat,  and  the  sorrow  on 
his  face,  he  forgot  Marian  in  his  anxiety  to  know  what 
had  happened. 

"My  mother's  dead,"  said  Ben,  and  the  strong  man, 
six  feet  high,  sobbed  like  a  little  child,  bringing  back 
to  Frederic's  mind  the  noiseless  room,  the  oddly  shaped 
box,  the  still,  white  face,  and  tolling  bell,  which  were 
all  he  could  distinctly  remember  of  the  day  when  he, 
too,  said  to  a  boy  like  himself,  "  My  mother's  dead." 

These  three  words.  Alas,  how  full  of  anguish  is 
their  utterance,  and  how  their  repetition  will  call  up 
an  answering  throb  in  the  heart  of  every  one  who  has 
ever  said  in  bitterness  of  grief,  "My  mother's  dead." 

Frederic  felt  it  instantly,  and  it  prompted  him  to 
take  again  the  rough  hand,  which  he  pressed  warmly 
in  token  of  his  sympathy. 

"  He  is  a  good  man,"  thought  Ben,  wiping  his  tears 
away  ;  and  after  a  few  choking  coughs  and  brief  ex- 
planations as  to  how  and  when,  he  came  at  once  to  the 
object  of  his  visit. 

"  He  should  peddle  now  just  as  he  used  to  do,  of 
course,  but  wimmen  wan't  so  lucky,  and  all  Marian 
could  do  was  to  teach.  He  had  given  her  a  tip-top 
larnin',  though  she  had  earnt  some  on't  herself  by 
sewin'.  She  had  got  a  paper  thing,  too,  with  a  blue 
ribin,  from  Miss  IJarcourt,  who  praised  her  up  to  the 
skies.  In  short,  if  Mr.  Raymond  had  not  any  teacher 
for  Alice,  wouldn't  he  take  Marian  Grey?"  and  Ben 


240  THE   GOVERNESS. 

twirled  his  hat  nervously,  while  he  waited  for  the  an 
Bwer. 

"  I  wish  you  had  applied  to  me  sooner,"  said  Fred- 
eric, "  for  in  that  case  I  would  have  taken  her,  but  a 
Mrs.  Jones,  from  Boston,  came  on  only  a  week  ago, 
BO  you  see  I  arn  supplied.  I  am  very  sorry,  for  I  feel 
an  interest  in  Miss  Grey,  and  will  use  my  influence  to 
procure  her  a  situation. 

"  Thank  you ;  there's  a  place  she  can  have,  but  I 
•wanted  her  to  come  here,"  returned  Ben,  who  was 
greatly  disappointed  and  began  to  cry  again. 

Frederic  was  somewhat  amused,  besides  being  con- 
siderably disturbed,  and  after  looking  at  the  child-man 
for  a  moment,  he  continued : 

"  Mrs.  Jones  is  engaged  for  one  year  only,  and  if  at 
the  end  of  that  time  Miss  Grey  still  wishes  to  come,  I 
pledge  you  my  word  that  she  shall  do  so." 

This  brought  "comfort  at  once.  One  year  was  not 
very  long  to  wait,  and  by  that  time  Marian  would  cer- 
tainly be  past  recognition,  and  as  all  Ben's  wishes  and 
plans  centered  upon  one  thing,  to  wit :  Mr.  Raymond's 
falling  in  love  with  his  unknown  wife,  he  was  readily 
consoled,  and  wiping  his  eyes,  he  said  apologetically, 
as  it  were,  "  I'm  dreadful  tender-hearted,  and  since 
I've  been  an  orphan  it's  ten  times  wus.  So  you  must 
excuse  my  actin'  like  a  baby.  Where's  Alice  ?" 

Frederic  called  the  little  girl,  who,  childlike,  waited 
to  put  on  her  bracelet,  "so  as  to  show  the  man  that 
Bhe  still  wore  it  and  liked  it  very  much."  She  seemed 
greatly  pleased  at  meeting  Ben  again,  asking  him  why 
he  had  not  been  there  before,  and  if  he  had  received 
her  picture. 

"  Yes,  wee  one,"  said  he,  taking  her  round  white 
arm  in  his  hand  and  touching  the  bracelet.  "  I  should 
have  writ,  only  that  ain't  in  my  line  much,  and  I  don't 
always  spell  jest  right,  but  we  got  the  picter,  and  Ma- 
rian was  so  pleased  she  cried." 

"  What  made  her  ?"  said  Alice,  wonderingly.  "  She 
don't  know  me." 


THE   GOVERNESS. 

"  But  she  knows  you're  blind,  for  I  told  her,"  waa 
Ben's  quick  reply,  which  was  quite  satisfactory  to 
Alice,  who  by  this  time  had  detected  a  note  of  sadness 
in  his  voice,  and  she  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

To  her  also  Ben  replied,  "  My  mother's  dead,"  and 
the  mature  little  girl  understood  at  once  the  dreary 
loneliness  that  a  mother's  death  must  bring  even  to  the 
heart  of  a  big  man  like  Ben.  Immediately,  too,  she 
thought  of  Marian  Grey,  and  asked  "  What  she  would 
do?" 

"  I  come  out  to  see  if  your  pa — no,  beg  your  pardon 
— to  see  if  the  Square  didn't  want  her  to  hear  you  say 
your  lessons,"  was  Ben's  answer,  and  Alice  exclaimed, 
"  Oh,  Frederic.  Let  her  come.  I  know  I  shall  like 
her  better  than  Mrs.  Jones,  for  she's  young  and  pretty, 
I  am  sure.  May  she  come  ?" 

"  Alice,"  said  Frederic,  "  Mrs.  Jones  has  an  aged 
mother  and  two  little  children  dependent  upon  her 
earnings,  and,  should  I  send  her  away,  the  disappoint- 
ment would-be  very  great.  Next  year,  if  we  all  live, 
Miss  Grey  shall  come,  and  with  this  you  must  be  sat- 
isfied." 

Alice  saw  at  once  that  he  was  right,  and  she  gave 
up  the  point,  merely  remarking  that  "  a  year  was  a 
heap  of  a  while." 

"  No,  'tain't,"  said  Ben,  who  each  moment  was  be- 
coming more  and  more  reconciled  to  the  arrangement. 

One  year's  daily  intercourse  with  fashionable  people, 
he  thought,  would  be  of  invaluable  service  to  Marian, 
and  as  he  wished  her  to  be  perfect  both  in  looks  and 
manners  when  he  presented  her  to  Frederic  Raymond, 
he  was  well  satisfied  to  wait,  and  he  returned  to  New 
York  with  a  light,  hopeful  heart.  Marian,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  slightly  disappointed,  for  like  Alice,  a  year 
seemed  to  her  a  long,  long  time.  Still  there  was  no 
alternative,  and  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Sheldon  that  she 
would  come  as  early  as  the  first  day  of  October.  It 
was  hard  to  break  up  their  old  home,  but  it  was  nec- 
essary, they  knew,  and  with  sad  hearts  they  disposed 

11 


24:2  THE    GOVERNESS. 

of  the  furniture,  gave  up  the  rooms,  and  then,  when 
the  appointed  time  came,  Marian  started  for  her  n^w 
home,  accompanied  by  Ben,  who  went  rather  unwill- 
ingly- 

"  We  ain't  no  more  alike  than  ile  and  water,"  he 
said,  when  she  first  suggested  his  going,  "  and  they 
won't  think  as  much  of  you  for  seein'  me." 

But  Marian  insisted,  and  Ben  went  with  her,  men- 
tally resolving  to  say  but  little,  as  by  this  means  he 
fancied  "  he  would  be  less  likely  to  show  how  big  a 
aoit  he  was  1" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WILL  GORDON. 

MBS.  SHELDON'S  residence  was  a  most  delightful 
spot,  reminding  Marian  a  little  of  Redstone  Hall,  and 
as  she  passed  up  its  nicely  graveled  walk  and  stepped 
upon  its  broad  piazza,  she  felt  that  she  could  be  very 
happy  there,  provided  she  met  with  sympathizing 
friends.  Any  doubts  she  might  have  had  upon  this 
subject  were  speedily  dispelled  by  the  appearance  of 
Mrs.  Sheldon,  in  whose  face  there  was  something  very 
familiar ;  and  it  was  not  lon«:  ere  Marian  identified 
her  as  the  lady  who  had  spoken  so  kindly  to  her  in 
the  car  between  Albany  and  New  York,  asking  her 
what  was  the  matter,  and  if  she  had  friends  in  the  city. 
This  put  Marian  at  once  at  her  ease,  and  her  admira- 
tion for  her  employer  increased  each  moment,  partic- 
ularly when  she  saw  how  gracious  she  was  to  Ben, 
who  true  to  his  resolution,  scarcely  spoke  except  to 
answer  Mrs.  Sheldon's  questions  and  to  decline  her 
invitation  to  dinner. 

"  1  should  never  get  through  that  in  the  world  with- 
out some  blunder,"  he  thought,  and  as  the  dinner-bell 
was  ringing,  he  took  his  leave,  crying  like  a  child  when 
he  parted  with  Marian,  who  was  scarcely  less  affected 
than  himself. 

Going  to  the  depot,  he  sauntered  into  the  ladies' 
room,  where  he  found  a  group  of  young  girls,  who  were 
•waiting  the  arrival  of  a  friend,  and  who,  meantime, 
were  ready  for  any  fun  which  might  come  up.  Ben 
instantly  attracted  their  attention,  and  one  who  seemed 


244  WILL   GORDON. 

to  be  the  leader  of  the  party,  began  to  quiz  him, 
ask.ng  "  where  he  live  d,  and  if  he  nad  ever  been  BO 
far  from  home  b  tore  ?" 

Ben  understood  the  drift  of  her  remarks  at  once, 
and  with  imperturbable  gravity,  replied : 

"  I  come  from  down  East,  where  they  raise  sich  as 
me,  and  this  is  the  fust  time  I  was  ever  out  of  Tan  ton, 
which  allus  was  my  native  town  !" 

Then,  taking  his  tobacco  box  from  his  pocket,  lie 
passed  it  to  an  elegant-looking  man,  whom  he  readily 
divined  to  be  the  brother  of  the  girl,  saying  to  him  : 

"  Have  a  chaw,  captain  ?  I'd  just  as  lief  you  would 
as  not." 

As  he  heard  the  loud  laugh  which  this  speech  called 
forth,  he  continued,  without  the  shadow  of  a  smile  : 

"  I  had — 'strne's  I  live,  for  I  ain't  none  o'  your  tiy;ht 
critters.  Nobody  ever  said  that  of  Ben  Bur — Ben 
Bntterwith,"  he  added,  hastily,  for  until  Marian  was 
discovered  to  Frederic,  he  thought  it  best  to  retain 
the  latter  name. 

"Ben  Butterworth,"  repeated  the  young  girl  in  an 
aside  to  her  brother — "  Why,  Will,  didn't  sister  Mary 
tell  us  that  was  the  adopted  brother  or  cousin  of  her 
new  governess?  You  know  Miss  Grey  mentioned  his 
name  in  one  of  her  letters." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Ben,  ere  Will  had  time  to  reply. 
"  If  by  Mary  you  mean  Miss  Sheldon,  I'm  the  chap. 
Brought  my  sister  there  to-day,  to  be  her  school- 
ma'am,  and  1  don't  want  you  to  run  over  her  neither, 
'cause  you'll  be  sorry  bimeby.  That  was  all  gammon  I 
told  you  about  never  being  away  from  home  before, 
for  I've  seen  considerable  ot  the  world." 

The  cars  from  Boston  were  by  this  time  rolling  in  at 
the  depot,  and  without  replying  to  Ben's  remark,  the 
young  lady  went  out  to  look  for  her  friend. 

That  night,  just  after  dark,  Mrs.  Sheldon's  door  bell 
rang,  and  her  brother  and  sister  came  in,  the  latter 
dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  and  bearing  about 
her  an  air  which,  seemed  to  indicate  that  she  had  long 


WILL    GORDON.  245 

been  accustomed  to  receive  the  homage  of  those  aronnd 
her.  Seating  herself  on  the  sofa,  she  began,  "Well, 
Mary,  Will  and  I  have  come  over  to  see  this  wonder- 
ful prodr'gy.  Mother  was  here,  you  know,  this  after- 
noon, and  she  came  home  half  wild  on  the  subject  of 
Miss  Grey,  insisting  that  I  should  call  directly,  and  so 
like  a  dutiful  daughter  I  have  obeyed,  thongh  I  must 
confess  that  the  sight  of  Ben  Butterworth,  whom  we 
met  at  the  depot,  did  not  greatly  prepossess  me  in  her 
favor." 

"  They  are  not  at  all  alike,"  said  Mrs.  Sheldon,  "  nei- 
ther are  they  in  any  way  related.  Miss  Grey  is  high- 
ly educated,  and  has  the  sweetest  face  I  ever  saw.  She 
has  some  secret  trouble,  too,  I'm  sure,  and  she  reminds 
me  of  a  beautiful  picture  over  which  a  vail  is  thrown, 
softening,  and  at  the  same  time  heightening  its  beauty." 

"Really,"  said  Will,  rousing  up,  "some  romance 
connected  with  her.  Do  bring  her  out  at  once." 

Mrs.  Sheldon  left  the  room,  and  going  up  to  Marian's 
chamber,  knocked  at  the  door.  A  low  voice  bade  her 
come  in,  and  she  entered  just  in  time  to  see  Marian 
hide  away  the  daguerreotype  of  Frederic,  at  which  she 
had  been  looking. 

"  My  brother  and  sister  are  in  the  parlor  and  have 
asked  for  you,"  she  said. 

"  I  will  come  down  in  a  moment,"  returned  Marian, 
who  wished  a  little  time  to  dry  her  tears,  for  she  had 
been  weeping  over  the  pictures  of  Frederic  and  Alice, 
both  of  which  she  had  in  her  possession. 

Accordingly,  when  Mrs.  Sheldon  was  gone,  she 
bathed  her  face  until  the  stains  had  disappeared  ;  then 
smoothing  her  collar  and  brushing  her  wavy  hair,  she 
descended  to  the  parlor,  where  Ellen. Gordon  sat  pre- 
pared to  criticise,  and  William  Gordon  sat  prepared 
for  almost  anything,  though  not  for  the  vision  which 
greeted  his  view  when  Marian  Grey  appeared  before 
him.  The  dazzling  purity  of  her  complexion  con- 
trasted well  with  her  black  dress,  and  the  natural 
bloom  upon  her  cheek  was  increased  by  her  embar- 


246  WILL   GORDON. 

rassment,  while  her  eyes  dropped  modestly  beneath 
the  long-fringed  lashes,  which  Ellen  noticed  at  once, 
because  they  were  the  one  coveted  beauty  which  had 
been  denied  to  herself 

"Jupiter!"  was  Will's  mental  comment.  "Mary 
didn't  exaggerate  in  the  least,  and  Nell  will  have  to 
yield  the  palm  at  once." 

Something  like  this  passed  through  Ellen's  mind, 
but  though  on  the  whole  a  frank,  right-minded  girl, 
she  was  resolved  upon  finding  fault  with  the  stranger, 
simply  because  her  mother  and  sister  had  said  so  much 
in  her  praise. 

"  She  is  vulgar,  I  know,"  she  thought,  and  she 
watched  narrowly  for  something  which  should  betray 
her  low  birth,  but  she  waited  in  vain. 

Marian  was  perfectly  lady-like  in  her  manners;  her 
language  was  well  chosen  ;  her  voice  soft  and  low ; 
and  ere  she  had  been*  with  her  half  an  hour,  Ellen  sec- 
retly acknowledged  her  superiority  to  most  of  the 
young  ladies  of  her  acquaintance,  and  she  regretted 
that  she,  too,  had  not  been  educated  at  Mrs.  Harcourt's 
school,  if  such  manners  as  Miss  Grey's  were  common 
there. 

At  Mrs.  Sheldon's  request,  Marian  took  her  seat  at 
the  piano,  and  then  Ellen  hoped  to  criticise;  but  here 
again  she  was  at  fault,  for  Marian  was  a  brilliant  per- 
former, keeping  perfect  time,  and  playing  with  the 
most  exquisite  taste. 

As  site  was  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  music 
book  after  the  close  of  the  first  piece,  Will  said  to  his 
sister : 

"By  the  way,  Nell,  I  had  a  letter  from  Fred  to-day 
and  he  says  he  will  be  delighted  to  get  you  that  music 
the  first  time  he  goes  to  the  city." 

Marian  started  just  as  she  had  done  that  afternoon 
when  Mrs.  Sheldon  called  her  youngest  boy  Fred. 
Still  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  do  so.  Fred- 
eric was  a  common  name,  and  she  kept  on  turning  the 


WILL   GORDON.  247 

leaves,  while  Ellen  replied,  "What  else  did  he  write, 
and  when  is  he  going  south  ?"  , 

Marian's  hand  was  stayed  now,  and  she  listened 
eagerly  for  the  answer,  which  was  "  Sometime  in  No- 
vember, and  he  has  invited  me  to  go  with  him,  but  I 
hardly  think  I  shall.  He's  lonesome,  he  says, "and  can 
find  no  trace  of  his  runaway  wife.  So,  there's  a 
shadow  of  a  chance  for  you  Nell." 

The  hand  which  held  the  leaf  suspended,  came 
down  with  a  crash  upon  the  keys  of  the  piano,  but 
Ellen  thought  it  was  an  accident,  if  she  thought  of  it 
at  all;  and  she  replied,  "Fie,  just  as  though  I  would 
have  a  man  before  I  knew  for  certain  that  his  wife 
was  dead.  I  admire  Mr.  Raymond  very  much,  and  if 
lie  had  not  been  so  foolish  as  to  marry  that  child,  I 
can't  say  that  he  would  not  have  made  an  impression, 
for  he  is  the  Hnest  looking  and  mo  -t  agreeable  gentle- 
man I  ever  met.  Isn't  it  strange  where  that  girl  went, 
and  what  she  went  for?  Hasn't  he  ever  told  you  any- 
thing that  would  explain  it  ?" 

Up  to  this  point  Marian  had  sat.  immovable,  listen- 
ing eagerly  and  wondering  where  these  people  had 
known  Frederic  Raymond.  Then,  as  something  far 
back  in  the  past  flashed  upon  her  mind,  she  turned, 
and  looking  in  the  young  man's  face,  knew  who  he 
was  and  that  they  had  met  before.  His  name  had 
seemed  familiar  from  the  first,  and  she  knew  that  he 
was  the  Will  Gordon  who  had  been  Frederic's  chum, 
in  college,  and  had  once  spent  a  vacation  at  Redstone 
Hall.  He  had  predicted  that  she  would  be  a  handsome 
woman,  and  Frederic  had  said  she  could  not  with  such 
hair.  She  remembered  it  all  distinctly,  but  any  effect 
it  might  then  have  had  upon  her  was  lost  in  her  anx- 
iety to  hear  the  answer  to  Ellen's  question. 

"  Fred  generally  keeps  his  matters  to  himself,  but 
I  know  as  much  as  this :  He  didn't  love  that  Miss 
Lindsey  any  too  well  when  lie  married  her,  but  he  has 
admitted  to  me  since  that  his  feelings  toward  her  had 
undergone  a  change,  and  he  would  give  almost  any- 


248  WILL   GORDON. 

thing  to  find  her.  He  is  certain  that  she  was  with  him 
when  he  was  sick  in  New  York,  and  since  that  time  he 
has  sought  for  her  everywhere." 

"William  Gordon  had  no  idea  of  the  effect  his  words 
produced  upon  the  figure  which,  on  the  music  stool, 
sat  as  motionless  as  if  it  had  been  a  block  of  marble. 
During  all  the  long,  dreary  years  of  exile  from  home 
there  had  not  come  to  her  so  cheering  a  ray  of  hope 
as  this,  and  the  bright  bloom  deepened  on  her  cheek, 
while  the  joy  which  danced  in  her  deep  blue  eyes 
made  them  look  almost  black  beneath  the  heavy 
lashes.  Frederic  was  beginning  to  love  her — he  had 
acknowledged  as  much  to  Mr.  Gordon,  and  her  heart 
bounded  forward  to  the  time  when  she  should  see  him 
face  to  face,  and  hear  him  tell  her  so  with  his  own  lips. 
Little  now  she  heeded  Ellen's  next  remark,  "I  pre- 
sume it  would  be  just  the  same  even  if  he  were  to  find 
heiv  He  is  a  great  admirer  of  beauty,  and  she,  I  be- 
lieve, was  very  ordinary  looking." 

"  Not  remarkably  so,"  returned  Will.  "  She  was 
thin-faced  and  had  red  hair,  but  I  remember  thinking 
she  might  make  a  handsome  woman — " 

u  With  red  hair!  Oh,  Will!"  and  the  blacktressed 
Ellen  laughed  at  the  very  idea. 

A  sudden  movement  on  Mariaa's  part  made  Will 
recollect  her,  and  he  hastened  to  apologise  for  his 
apparent  forgett'ulness  of  her  presence. 

"  You  will  please  excuse  us,"  he  said,  "  for  discuss- 
ing an  affair  in  which  you,  of  course,  can  have  no  in- 
terest." 

"  Certainly,"  she  replied,  while  around  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  were  little  laughing  dimples,  which  told 
no  tales  to  the  young  man,  who  continued  :  "  Will  you 
give  us  some  more  music  ?  I  admire  your  style  of  play- 
ing." 

Marian  was  in  a  mood  for  anything,  and  turning  to 
the  piano  she  dashed  off  into  a  merry,  spirited  thing, 
to  which  'Will's  feet  kept  time,  while  Ellen  looked  on 
amazed  at  the  white  fingers  which  flew  like  lightning 


WILL    GOEDON.  249 

over  the  keys,  seemingly  never  resting  for  an  instant 
upon  any  one  of  them,  but  lighting  here  and  there 
with  a  rapidity  she  never  before  S(  en  equalled.  It  wns 
the  outpouring  of  Marian's  heart,  and  the  tune  she 
plaved  was  a  song  of  jubilee  for  the  glad  tidings  she 
had  heard.  Ere  she  had  half  finished,  Will  Gordon 
was  at  her  side,  gazing  \vonderingly  into  her  face, 
which  sparkled  and  glowed  with  her  excitement. 

"  She  is  strangely  beautiful,"  he  thought,  and  so  he 
said  to  Ellen  when  they  were  walking  home  together. 

"She  looks  very  well,"  returned  Ellen,  "but  I  trust 
you  will  not  feel  it  your  duty  to  fall  in  love  with  her 
on  that  account.  Wouldn't  it  be  ridiculous  though,  for 
you,  who  profess  never  to  have  felt  the  least  affection 
for  any  woman,  to  yield  at  once  to  Mary's  gover- 
ness ?" 

"Mary's   governess   is   no    ordinary    person,"   an 
swered  Will.    "  How  like  the  mischief  she  made  those 
fingers  go  in  that  last  piece.     I  never  saw  anything 
like  it  ;"  and  he  tried  in  vain  to  whistle  a  few  bars  of 
the  lively  strain. 

That  night  three  men  dreamed  of  Marian — Will 
Gordon  in  his  bachelor  apartments,  which  he  had  said 
should  never  be  invaded  with  a  female's  wardrobe — 
Ben  Burt  in  his  room  at  the  Lovejoy  Hotel — and  Fred- 
eric L'aymond  in  his  cheerful  home  upon  the  Hudson. 
But  to  Marian,  sleeping  so  quietly  in  her  chamber 
there  came  a  thought  of  only  one,  and  that  one  Fred- 
eric Raymond,  whose  picture  lay  beneath  her  pillow. 
She  had  never  placed  it  there  until  to-night,  for  she 
had  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to  do  so.  But  Mr.  Gor- 
don's words  had  effected  a  change.  He  said  that 
Frederic  \vas  begining  to  love  her  at  last — that  he  had 
Bought  for  her  without  success — that  he  would  give 
almost  anything  to  find  her.  It  is  true  she  could  not 
reconcile  allthis  with  her  preconceived  opinion  :  but 
she  had  no  wish  to  doubt  it,  and  she  accepted  it  as 
truth,  thinking  it  was  probably  a  very  recent  thing 
with  him,  this  searching  after  and  loving  her. 


250  WILL   GORDON. 

"Very  rapidly  and  pleasantly  to  Marian  did  the  first 
few  weeks  of  her  sojourn  with  Mrs.  Sheldon  pass  away. 
She  was  interested  in  her  pupils,  two  bright-raced  little 
girls,  and  doubly  interested  in  their  brother,  the  brown- 
eyed  Fred)  whose  real  name  she  learned  was  Frederic 
Raymond,  lie  having  been^  called,  Mrs.  Sheldon  said, 
after  "Williams  particular  friend,  who  spent  his  winters 
in  Kentucky,  and  his  Summers  at  Riverside,  a  delight- 
ful place  on  the  Hudson.  Frederic  Raymond  was  a 
frequent  subject  of  conversation  in  Mrs.  Sheldon's  fam- 
ily, and  once,  after  Marian  had  been  there  four  or  five 
months,  and  Will,  as  usual,  was  spending  an  evening 
there,  the  matter  was  discussed  at  length,  while  Ma* 
rian,  sitting  partly  in  the  shade,  so  that  the  working  of 
her  features  could  not  be  seen,  dropped  stitch  after 
stitch  in  the  cloud  she  was  crotcheting,  and  finally 
stopped  altogether  as  the  conversation  proceeded. 

u  I  am  positive,"  said  Mrs.  Sheldon,  "  that  I  saw  Mrs. 
Raymond  in  the  cars,  between  Albany  and  Newburg. 
It  was  four  years  ago,  last  Autumn,  and  about  that 
time  she  came  away.  There  was  a  very  young  girl  sit- 
ting before  me,  dressed  in  black,  with  long  red  curls, 
and  she  looked  as  if  she  had  wept  all  her  tears  away, 
though  they  fell  like  rain  when  I  spoke  to  her  and 
asked  her  what  was  the  matter.  I  remember  her  par- 
ticularly from  her  question,  '  Is  New  York  a  heap  nois- 
ier than  Albany  or  Buffalo?'  " 

"  That  '  heap  '  is  purely  Southern,"  interrupted  "Will, 
while  his  sister  continued': 

"  She  said  she  had  but  one  friend  in  the  world,  and 
that  one  was  in  New  York.  I  remember,  too,  that  one 
of  her  hands  was  ungloved.  It  was  so  white  and 
small,  and  she  used  it  so  often  to  brush  her  tears  away." 

Here  Will  glanced  involuntarily  at  the  beautiful  lit- 
tle hands  busy  with  the  cloud.  It  might  have  been 
fancy,  but  he  thought  they  trembled,  and  so  he  closed 
-the  register  and  Opened  a  door,  thinking  the  heat  of 
of  the  room  might  have  made  Miss  Grey  nervous — and 
he  was  growing  very  careful  of  her  comfort  I 


WILL    GORDON.  251 

Poor  Will ! 

Returning  to  his  seat,  he  replied  to  his  sister's  i<e- 
mark,  "That  was  undoubtedly  Marian  Lindsey.  Did 
you  speak  of  it  to  Frederic  ?" 

"  No,"  eaid  Mrs.  Sheldon,  "  I  have  always  thought 
he  disliked  talking  of  her  to  me,  and  that  makes  me 
think  there  is  something  wrong — that  he  did  her  an  in- 
jury." 

"Every  man  who  marries  without  love  injures  the 
woman  he  makes  his  wife,"  said  "Will,  "  and  Frederic 
does  not  profess  to  have  loved  her  then.  His  father 
drew  him  into  this  match,  and  for  some  inexplicable 
reason  Fred  consented,  when  all  the  time  he  loved  that 
Isabel  Huntington.  But  he  has  recovered  from  that 
infatuation,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  never  liked  her, 
and  had  the  thing  been  possible,  I  should  say  she  pois- 
oned him  against  this  Marian.  Why,  Miss  Grey,  you 
are  actually  shivering,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  the  vio- 
lent trembling  of  Marian's  body,  and  this  time  he 
opened  the  register  and  shut  the  door,  offering  to  go 
for  a  shawl,  and  asking  where  she  had  taken  such  a 
cold, 

*'  It's  only  a  slight  chill — it  will  soon  pass  off,"  she 
said,  and  as  Mrs.  Sheldon  was  just  then  called  from  the 
room,  Will  drew  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  Marian  and 
continued : 

"  This  Raymond  affair  must  be  irksome  to  you,  who 
know  nothing  about  it." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Marian  faintly.  '*  I  am  greatly  in- 
terested, particularly  in  the  girl  wife.  Can't  he  find 
her  ?  Seems  as  though  he  might.  Perhaps  though,  he 
don't  really  care." 

•'  Yes,  he  does,"  interrupted  Will.  "  He  disliked 
her  once,  but  I  believe  he  feels  differently  toward  her 
now.  His  hobby  in  college  was  a  handsome  wife,  but 
he  has  learned  that  beauly  alone  is  worthless,  and  he 
would  gladly  take  Marian  back." 

"  Red  hair  and  all  ?"  asked  Marian,  mischievously, 
and  Will  replied,  "  Yes,  I  believe  he's  even  made  up 


252  WILL   GOKDON. 

his  mind  to  the  red  hair.  I  didn't  object  to  it  myself, 
and  I  once  saw  this  girl." 

"  Redstone'Hall  is  a  beautiful  spot,  I  believe,"  said 
Marian,  briefly  stating  thai  Ben  had  once  been  there 
in  his  travels,  and  had  since  met  Mr.  Raymond  in  New 
York. 

"  Then  you  know  the  family,"  said  Will,  in  some 
surprise. 

"  I  know  of  them,"  returned  Marian,  "  for  Ben  was 
so  much  interested  in  the  blind  girl  that  after  his  re- 
turn he  talked  of  little  else." 

"  You  have  never  seen  them  youself,  of  course,"  and 
taking  this  fact  for  granted,  Will  proceeded  to  give  her 
a  most  minute  description  of  Redstone  Hall,  of  its  mas- 
ter, and  of  herself  as  she  was  when  he  visited  Ken- 
tucky. 

Frederic's  marriage  was  then  touched  upon.  Will 
telling  how  angry  his  chum  used  to  be  when  he  receiv- 
ed a  letter  on  the  subject  from  his  father. 

"  We  were  studying  law  together,"  he  said,  "  and, 
as  we  were  room-mates  in  college,  it  was  quite  natural 
that  we  should  confide  in  each  other  ;  so  he  used  to  tell 
ine  of  his  father's  project,  and  almost  swear  he  wouldn't 
do  it.  I  never  was  more  astonished  than  when  I  heard 
he  was  to  be  married  in  a  few  days.  '  It's  all  over 
with  me,'  he  wrote,  '  I  can't  help  it  1"  and  he  signed 
himself  '  Your  wretched  Fred !'  But  what  are  you 
crying  for,  Miss  Grey  2  You  certainly  are.  What  is 
the  matter  ?" 

"  1  am  crying  for  her — for  poor  Marian  Lindsey  !" 
*vas  the  answer ;  and  Marian's  tears  flowed  faster. 

Will  Gordon  was  distressed  at  the  sight  of  woman's 
tears,  but  particularly  at  the  sight  of  Marian  Grey's, 
and  he  tried  to  console  her  by  saying  he  was  sure  Mr. 
Raymond  would  sometime  find  his  wife,  and  they  all 
would  be  the  happier  for  what  they  both  had  suffered. 
Involuntarily  he  had  touched  the  right  chord,  for,  in 
listening  to  his  predictions  of  future  good,  which 
should  come  to  Frederic  Raymond's  wife,  Marian  Grey 


WILL   GORDON.  253 

ceased  to  weep,  and  when,  ere  hio  departure,  Will 
asked  her  for  for  some  music,  she  gave  him  one  of 
those  stirring  pieces  she  always  played  when  her  heart 
was  running  over  with  happy  anticipations ! 

Will  Gordon  was  older  than  Frederic  Raymond,  and 
•an  examination  of  the  family  Bible  would  have  shown 
him  to  be  thirty.  Quite  a  bachelor,  his  sister  Ellen 
Baid,  and  she  marveled  that  he  had  lived  thus  long 
without  taking  to  himself  a  wife.  But  Will  was  very 
fastidious  in  his  ideas  of  females,  and  though  he  ha.d 
traveled  much,  both  in  Europe  and  his  own  country, 
he  had  never  seen  a  face  which  could  hold  his  fancy 
for  a  moment,  until  the  sunny  blue  eyes  of  Marian 
Grey  shone  upon  him  and  thawed  the  ice  which  had 
laid  about  his  heart  so  many  years.  Even  then  he  did 
not  quite  understand  the  feeling,  or  know  how  it  was 
that  night  after  night  he  found  himself  locked  out  at 
home,  while  morning  after  morning  his  sister  Ellen 
scolded  him  for  staying  out  so  late,  wondering  what 
attraction  he  could  find  at  Mary's,  when  he  knew  as 
well  as  sue  that  he  would  never  disgrace  the  Gordon 
family  by  marrying  a  governess,  and  a  peddler's  adopted 
sister,  too!  Will  hardly  thought  he  should  either.  He 
didn't  quite  know  what  ailed  him,  and  in  a  letter  writ- 
ten to  Frederic,  who  was  now  in  Kentucky,  he  gave 
an  analysis  of  his  feelings,  after  having  first  told  him 
that  Marian  Grey  was  the  adopted  sister  of  a  Yankee 
peddler,  who  had  once  visited  Redstone  Hall,  and 
who,  he  was  sure,  Frederic  would  remember  for  his 
oddities. 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  this  girl,"  he  wrote,  "  I'd  like 
to  have  your  opinion,  for  I  know  you  are  a  connois- 
seur in  everything  pertaining  to  female  charms,  but  I 
am  sure  you  never  in  all  your  life  saw  anything  like 
Marian  Grey.  I  never  did,  and  I  have  seen  the  proud- 
est court  beauties  in  Europe — but  nobody  like  her. 
And  yet  it  is  not  so  much  the  exceeding  fairness  of 
her  complexion,  or  the  perfect  regularity  of  her  fea- 
t  ires,  as  it  is  the  indescribably  fascinating  something 


264  WILL   GORDON. 

which  demands  your  pity  as  well  as  yonr  admiration. 
There  is  that  about  her  .mouth,  and  in  her  smile,  which 
seems  to  say  that  she  has  suffered  as  few  have  ever 
done,  and  that  from  this  suffering  she  has  risen  puri- 
fied, beautified,  and  if  I  may  be  allowed  a  term  which 
my  good  mother  would  call  wicked  in  the  extreme, 
glorified  as  it  were  ! 

"  Just  picture  to  yourself  a  graceful,  airy  figure,  five 
feet  four  inches  high — then  clothe  it  in  black,  and 
adapt  every  article  of  dress  exactly  to  her  form  and 
Btyle,  then  imagine  a  rose-bud  face,  which  .1  cannot 
describe,  with  the  deepest,  saddest,  brightest,  merri- 
est, sunniest,  laughing  blue  eyes  yon  ever  saw.  You 
see  there  is  a  slight  contradiction  of  words,  but  every 
one  by  turns  will  apply  to  her  eyes'  of  blue.  Then 
her  hair — oh,  Fred,  words  fail  me  here.  It's  a  mix- 
ture of  everything — brown,  black,  yellow,  and  red. 
Yes,  red — I  mean  it,  for  it  has  decidedly  a  reddish  hue 
in  the  sunshine.  By  gas-light  it  is  brown,  and  by  day- 
light a  most  beautiful  chesnut  or  auburn — rippling  all 
over  her  head  in  glossy  waves,  and  curling  about  her 
forehead  and  neck. 

"  Beautiful — beautiful  Marian  !  Yes,  I  will  call  her 
Marian  here  on  paper,  with  no  one  to  see  it  but  you. 
'Tis  a  sweet,  feminine  name,  Fred  ; — the  name,  too,  of 
your  lost  wife.  I  told  her  that  story  the  other  night, 
and  she  cried  great  tears,  which  looked  like  pearls 
upon  her  cheek. 

"  Do  write  soon,  and  give  me  your  advice — though 
what  I  want  of  it  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  I  only  know 
that  I  feel  strangely  about  the  region  of  my  waist- 
bands, and  every  time  I  see  Miss  Grey,  I  feel  a  heap 
worse,  as  you  folks  say.  She  is  of  low  origin,  I  know, 
and  this  would  make  a  difference  with  a  man  as  proud 
as  you,  but  I  don't  care.  Marian  Grey  has  bewitched 
me,  I  verily  believe,  until  I  am — I  don't  know  what. 

"  Do  write,  Fred,  and  tell  me  what  I  am,  and  what 
to  do.  But  pray  don't  preface  your  letter  with  long- 
winded  remarks  about  marrying  my  equal — looking 


WILL   GORDON.  255 

higher  than  a  peddler's  sister,  and  all  that  nonsense,  for 
it  will  be  lost  on  me.  I  never  can  get  higher  than 
Marian's  blue  eyes  unless  indeed  I  reached  her  hair, 
at  which  point  I  should  certainly  yield,  and  go  over  to 
the  enemy  at  once/' 

This  letter  reached  Frederic  one  rainy  afternoon, 
when  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  read  it,  laugh  over 
it,  reflect  upon  and  answer  it.  Will  Gordon's  descrip- 
tion of  Marian  Grey  thrilled  him  with  a  strange  feel- 
ing of  pleasure,  imperceptibly  sending  his  thoughts 
after  another  Marian,  and  involuntarily  he  said,  aloud, 
"If  she  had  been  like  this  picture  Will  has  drawn,  I 
should  not  be  here  so  lonely  and  desolate." 

Frederic  Raymond  was  prouder  far  than  Will  Gor- 
don, and  his  feelings  at  first  rebelled  against  his  friend's 
taking  for  a  bride  the  sister  of  unpolished,  uneducated 
Ben.  "  But  it  is  his  own  matter,"  he  said  ;  "  I  see 
plainly  that  he  is  in  love,  so  I  will  write  at  once  and 
tell  him  what  is  the  *  trouble'  " 

Accordingly  he  commenced  a  letter,  in  which  after 
expressing  his  happiness  that  his  college  friend  had 
not  persisted  in  shutting  his  eyes  to  all  female  charms, 
he  wrote : 

"  I  should  prefer  your  wife  to  be  somewhat  nearer 
your  equal  in  point  of  family,  it  is  true,  but  your  de- 
scription of  Marian  Grey  won  my  heart  entirely,  and 
you  have  my  consent  to  offer  yourself  at  once.  By  so 
doing,  you  will  probably  deprive  Alice  of  her  gover- 
ness and  me  of  a  pleasant  companion,  for  I  had  made 
an  arrangement  with  Ben  to  have  Miss  Grey  with  us 
next  year.  But  no  matter  for  that.  Woo  and  win 
her  just  the  same,  and  Heaven  grant  you  a  happier 
future  than  my  past  has  been. 

41 '  Beautiful !  beautiful  Marian  !'  you  said,  and  with- 
out knowing  why,  my  heart  responded  to  it.  She  is 
beautiful,  I  am  sure,  and  your  description  of  her  is 
just  what  I  would  like  to  apply  to  my  own  wife — my 
lost  Marian  1  You  see  I  have  withdrawn  my  allegi- 


256  WILL   GOKDON. 

ance  from  black-haired  dark-eyed  maidens,  and  gone 
over  to  laughing  blue  eyes  and  auburn  tresses. 

"  By  the  way,  speaking  of  the  dark  eyed  maidens 
reminds  me  tliat  Agnes  Gibson's  husband  is  dead,  and 
she  is  sole  heiress  of  all  his  fortune,  except  a  legacy 
which  he  left  to  Miss  liuntington,  who  lived  in  his 
family  at  the  time  of  his  death.  Poor  old  man  !  Ru- 
mor says  he  led  a  sorry  life  with  both  of  them,  but 
at  the  last  his  young  wife  cajoled  him  into  making  his 
will,  and  was  really  kind  to  him.  She  is  at  her  fath- 
er's now,  and  Miss  Huntingdon  is  there  also.  I  called 
upon  them  yesterday,  and  have  hardly  recovered  yet 
from  the  chilling  reception  I  met  with  from  the  latter. 

"  But  pardon  me,  Will,  lor  this  digression,  when  I 
was  to  write  of  nothing  save  Marian  Grey.  The  name 
reminded  me  of  my  own  wife,  and  that,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  suggested  Isabel.  Give  my  compliments  to 
Miss  Grey,  and  tell  her  that,  under  the  circumstances, 
I  release  her  from  her  engagement  with  myself,  and 
that,  if  she  is  a  sensible  girl,  as  I  suppose  she  is,  she 
will  not  keep  you  on  your  knees  longer  than  necessary. 
Let  me  hear  of  your  success  or  failure,  and,  on  no  ac- 
count, forget  to  invite  me  to  the  wedding.  It  is  pos- 
sible I  may  be  obliged  to  come  North  on  business,  iu 
the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  and,  if  so,  I  shall  certainly 
call  on  you  for  the  sake  of  seeing  this  wonderful  .Ma- 
rian Grey.  .  "  Yours  truly, 

"F.  RAYMOND." 


CHAPTEE  XXL 
WILL'S  WOOING. 


THE  silver  tea-set  and  damask  cloth  had  been  re- 
moved from  Mrs.  Gordon's  supper-table.  The  heavy 
curtains  of  brocatelle  were  dropped  before  the  win- 
dows ;  a  cheerful  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate,  for 
Mrs.  Gordon  eschewed  both  furnaces  and  stoves;  the 
gas  burned  brightly  in  the  chandelier,  casting  a  soft- 
ened light  throughout  the  room,  and  rendering  more 
distinct  the  gay  flowers  on  the  carpet.  The  lady- 
mother,  a  fair  type  of  a  thrifty  New  England  woman, 
had  donned  her  spectacles,  and  from  a  huge  pile  of 
socks  was  selecting  those  which  needed  a  near  ac- 
quaintance with  the  needle,  and  lamenting  over  her 
son's  propensity  at  wearing  out  his  toes  1 

The  son,  meantime,  half  lay,  half  sat  upon  the  sofa, 
listlessly  drumming  with  his  fingers,  and  feeling  glad 
that  Ellen  was  not  there,  and  wondering  how  he  should 
begin  to  tell  his  mother  what  he  so  much  wished  her 
to  know. 

"  I  should  suppose  she  might  see  it,"  he  thought — 
"  might  know  how  much  I  am  in  love  with  Marian, 
for  I  used  to  be  always  talking  about  her,  and  now  I 
never  mention  her,  it  makes  my  heart  thump  so  if  I 
try  to  speak  her  name.  Nell  will  make  a  fuss,  per- 
haps, for  she  thinks  so  much  of  family :  but  Marian  is 
family  enough  for  me.  Mary  likes  her,  and  I  guess 
mother  does.  I  mean  to  ask  her." 

"Mother?" 


258  WILL'S  WOOING. 

"  "What,  "William  ?"  and  the  good  lady  ran  her  hand 
into  a  sock  with  a  shockingly  large  rent  in  the  heel. 

No  woman  can  be  very  gracious  with  such  an  open 
prospect,  and,  as  "Will  saw  the  scowl  on  his  mother's 
face,  he  regretted  that  he  had  spoken  at  this  inauspic- 
ious moment. 

"  I'll  wait  till  she  finds  one  not  quite  as  dilapidated 
as  that,"  he  thought,  and  when  the  question  was  re- 
peated, "What,  William?"  he  replied,  "  Is  Nell  com- 
ing home  to-night  ?" 

"I  believe  so.  I  wish  she  was  here  now  to  help  me, 
for  I  shall  never  get  these  mended.  What  makes  you 
wear  out  your  socks  so  fast  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  unless  it's  beating  time  to 
Miss  Grey's  lively  music.  Don't  she  play  like  the 
mischief,  though?" 

Mrs.  Gordon  did  not  answer,  and  Will  continued, 
"  Let  me  help  you  mend.  I  used  to  in  college  and  in 
Europe,  too,  and  if  I  never  marry," — here  Will's  voice 
trembled  a  little — "  I  shall  need  to  know  how.  Thread 
me  a  darning  needle,  won't  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Gordon  laughingly  compiled  with  his  request, 
and  the  fashionable  Will  Gordon  was  soon  deep  in  the 
mysteries  of  sock-darning,  an  accomplishment  in 
which  he  had  before 'had  some  experience.  Very 
rapidly  his  mother's  amiability  increased,  until  at  last 
he  ventured  to  say,  "  Let  me  see,  how  old  am  I  ?" 

"  Thirty,  last  August,  just  twenty  years  younger 
than  I  am." 

"  Then,  when  you  were  at  my  age  you  had  a  boy 
ten  years  old.  I  wonder  how  I  should  feel  in  a  like 
predicament." 

"  I'm  afraid  you'll  never  know,"  and  Mrs.  Gordon 
commenced  on  a  fresh  sock. 

"  Mother,  how  would  you  to  have  me  marry  and 
settle  down  ?"  Will  continued,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  and  his  mother  replied,  "  Well  enough,  pro- 
vided I  liked  your  wife." 

"  You  don't  suppose  I'd  marry  one  you  didn't  like, 


WILL'S  WOOING.  259 

I  hope.  Just  look,  can  you  beat  that  ?"  and  he  held 
up  what  he  fancied  to  be  a  neatly  darned  sock,  which, 
Bpite  of  its  bungling  appearance,  received  so  much 
praise,  that  he  felt  emboldened  to  proceed. 

Taking  Frederic's  letter  from  his  pocket  he  passed 
it  to  his  mother,  asking  her  to  read  it,  and  give  him 
her  opinion. 

"  You  know  I  never  can  make  out  Mr.  Raymond's 
writing,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  "so  pray  read  it  yourself.'* 

But  this  Will  could  not  do,  and  he  insisted  until  his 
mother  took  the  letter  and  began  to  read,  while  he 
forgot  to  darn,  so  intent  was  he  upon  watching  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face.  At  first  it  turned  very  red,  then 
white,  and  then  the  great  drops  of  perspiration  stood 
upon  her  forehead,  for  she  felt  as  every  mother  does, 
when  they  first  learn  that  their  only  boy  is  about 
yielding  to  another  the  love  they  have  claimed  so  long. 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  Marian  ?"  she  asked,  giving 
him  back  the  letter,  but  not  resuming  her  work. 

"  No,"  was  his  answer :  and  she  continued,  "  Then  I 
wouldn't." 

"  Why  not?"  he  asked,  in  some  alarm;  and  with  a 
tremor  in  her  voice,  his  mother  replied,  "I've  nothing 
against  Marian,  but  we  are  so  happy  together,  and  it 
would  kill  me  to  have  you  go  away." 

"Is  that  all?"  and  in  his  delight  Will  ran  the  darn- 
ing-needle under  his  thumb  nail ;  "  I  needn't  go  away. 
I  can  bring  her  home,  and  you  won't  have  to  mend 
rny  socks  any  more.  Those  back  chambers  are  seldom 
used,  and — 

"  Back  chambers  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gordon.  "  I. 
guess  it  you  bring  a  wife  here,  You'll  occupy  the  par- 
lor chamber  and  bedroom.  I  was  going  to  re-paper 
them  in  the  Spring,  and  I  think  on  the  whole  I'll  re- 
furnish it  entirely,  for  you  might  sometimes  have  calls 
up  there." 

k*  You  charming  woman,"  cried  Will,  kissing  hia 
mother,  whose  consent  he  understood  to  be  fully  won. 

He  knew  she  had  always  admired  Miss  Grey,  but  he 


260  WILL'S  WOOING. 

expected  more  opposition  than  this,  and  in  his  delight 
he  would  have  gone  to  see  Marian  at  once,  were  it  not 
that  he  had  heard  she  was  absent  that  evening.  For 
an  hour  or  more  he  talked  with  his  mother  of  his  plans, 
and  when  at  last  Ellen  came  in,  she,  too,  was  let  into 
the  secret.  Of  course,  she  rebelled  at  first,  for  her 
family  pride  was  very  strong,  and  the  peddler  Ben, 
was  a  serious  objection.  But  when  she  saw  how  ear- 
nest her  brother  was,  and  that  her  mother,  too,  had 
espoused  his  cause,  she  condescended  to  say : 

"  I  suppose  you  might  do  worse,  though  folks  will 
wonder  at  jour  taste  in  marrying  Mary's  governess." 

"  Let  them  wonder,  then,"  said  Will.  "  They  dare 
not  slight  my  wife,  you  know,"  and  then  he  drew  a 
pleasing  picture  of  the  next  Summer,  when,  with  his 
mother,  Marian  and  Ellen,  he  would  visit  the  White 
Mountains  and  Montreal. 

""Why  not  go  to  Europe?"  suggested  Ellen.  "  Mr. 
Sheldon  talks  of  going  in  August,  and  if  you  must  mar- 
ry this  girl,  you  may  as  well  go,  too." 

"  Well  spoken  for  yourself,  little  puss,"  returned 
Will ;  "  but  it's  a  grand  idea,  and  I'll  make  arrange- 
ments with  Tom  as  soon  as  I  have  seen  Marian.  May- 
be she'll  refuse  me,"  and  Will  turned  pale  at  the  very 
idea. 

"  No  danger,"  was  Ellen's  comment,  while  her  mo- 
ther thought  the  same,  for  in  her  estimation  no  one  in 
their  right  mind  could  refuse  her  noble  boy. 

It  was  a  long  night  to  Will,  and  the  next  day  longer 
still,  for  joyful  hope  and  harrowing  fears  tormented 
his  mind,  and  when  at  last  it  was  dark,  and  he  had 
turned  his  face  toward  Mr.  Sheldon's,  he  half  deter- 
mined to  go  back.  But  he  didn't,  and  with  his  usual 
easy,  off-hand  manner,  he  entered  his  sister's  sitting- 
room.  Though  bound  to  secrecy,  Ellen  had  told  the 
news  to  Mrs.  Sheldon,  who,  of  course,  had  told  her 
husband  ;  and  soon  after  Will's  arrival,  the  two  found 
some  excuse  for  leaving  him  alone  with  Marian  Grey. 

Marian  liked  William  Gordon  very  much — partly 


WILL'S  WOOING.  261 

because  he  was  Frederic's  friend,  and  partly  because 
she  knew  him  to  be  a  most  affectionate  brother  and 
dutiful  son — two  rare  qualities  in  a  traveled  and  fash- 
ionable man.  She  was  always  pleased  to  see  him,  and 
she  welcomed  him  now  as  usual,  without  observing  his 
evident  embarrassment  when  at  last  they  were  alone. 
There  were  no  stockings  to  be  darned,  and  he  did  not 
know  how  to  commence,  until  he  remembered  Freder- 
ic's letter.  It  had  helped  him  with  his  mother — it 
might  aid  him  now — and  after  fidgeting  awhile  in  hia 
chair,  he  said : 

"  I  heard  from  Mr.  Raymond  yesterday." 

"  Indeed  !"  and  Marian's  voice  betrayed  more  inter- 
est than  the  word  would  indicate. 

"  He  wrote  that  you  were  engaged  to  him — " 

"  I  engaged  to  Frederic  Raymond !"  and  Marian 
started  so  suddenly  that  she  pulled  her  needle  out  from 
the  worsted  garment  she  was  knitting. 

"  Engaged  to  teach,  I  mean,"  returned  "Will.  "  I'll 
show  you  what  he  wrote  when  you  pick  up  those 
stitches.  What  do  you  call  that  queer-shaped  thing  ?" 

"  A  Sontag,  or  Hug-me-tight,"  said  Marian,  while 
Will  involuntarily  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  could — 
see  Fred,  he's  such  a  good  fellow,"  he  hastened  to  add, 
as  he  saw  Marian's  wondering  glance. 

But  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  senfence  were  too 
far  apart  to  belong  to  each  other,  and  there  was  a  mo- 
ment's awkward  silence,  which  was  broken  at  last  by 
Marian,  who,  resolving  to  take  no  notice  of  the  strange 
speech,  said  : 

a  What  did  Mr.  Raymond  write  of  me?" 

"  I'll  show  you  just  a  little,"  and  Will  pointed  out 
the  sentence  commencing  with  "  Give  my  respects  to 
Miss  Grey,"  etc. 

The  sight  of  the  well-remembered  handwriting  af 
fected  Marian  sensibly ;  but  when  she  came  to  the  last 
part,  and  began  to  understand  to  what  it  all  was  tend- 
ing, her  head  grew  dizzy  and  her  brain  whirled  for  a 
moment.  Then  an  intense  pity  for  Will  Gordon  filled 


262  WILL'S  WOOING. 

her  soul,  for  looking  upward  she  met  the  glance  of  hia 
eyes,  and  saw  therein  how  much  she  was  beloved. 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Gordon  !"  she  cried,  putting  her 
hands  to  her  ears  as  he  began  to  say  :  "Dear  ]\£arian.'? 
"  You  must  not  call  me  so  ;  it  is  wicked  for  you  to  do 
it — wicked  for  me  to  listen.  I  am  not  what  I  seem." 

And  she  burst  into  tears,  weeping  so  bitterly  that  in 
his  efforts  to  soothe  her,  Will  well  nigh  carried  out 
the  wish  which  had  been  finished  up  with  "seeing 
Frederic  Raymond." 

Her  not  being  what  she  seemed,  he  fancied  might 
refer  to  something  connected  with  her  birth,  *and  he 
hastened  to  assure  her  that  no  circumstance  whatever 
could  change  his  feelings,  or  prevent  him  from  wish- 
ing her  to  be  his  wife. 

"  Won't  you,  Marian  ?"  he  said,  holding  her  in  his 
arm  so  she  could  not  escape.  "  I  have  never  loved 
before.  I  always  said  I  qould  not,  until  I  saw  you  ; 
and  then  everything  was  changed.  I  have  told  my 
mother,  darling,  and  Ellen,  too.  They  are  ready  to 
receive  you,  if  you  will  go.  Look  at  me,  and  say  you 
will  come  to  my  home,  which  will  never  again  be  so 
bright  to  me  without  you.  Won't  my  darling  answer 
me  ?"  he  continued,  while  she  sobbed  so  violently  as 
to  render  speaking  impossible.  "  I  am  sorry  if  my 
words  distressed  you  so,"  he  added,  resting  her  head 
upon  his  bosom,  and  fondly  smoothing  her  hair. 

"I  am  distressed  for  you,"  Marian  at  last  found 
voice  to  say.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Gordon,  I  should  be  most 
wretched  if  I  thought  I  had  encouraged  you  in  this  1 
But  I  have  not,  I  am  sure.  I  like  you  very,  very 
much,  but  I  cannot  be  your  wife  /" 

"  Marian,  are  you  in  earnest  ?"  And  on  Will  Gor- 
don's manly  face  was  a  look  never  seen  there  before. 

He  did  not  know  until  now  how  much  he  loved  the 
beautiful  young  girl  he  held  so  closely  to  his  side. 
All  the  affections  of  his  heart  had  centered  themselves, 
as  it  were,  upon  her,  and  he  could  not  give  her  up. 
She  had  been  so  kirid  to  him — had  welcomed  him  ever 


WILL  8    WOOING. 

with  her  sweetest  smile — had  seemed  sorry  at  his  de- 
parture— and  was  not  this  encouragement?  He  had 
taken  it  as  such,  and  ere  she  could  reply  to  the  ques- 
tion :  "  Are  you  in  earnest  ?"  he  added : 

"  I  have  thought,  from  your  manner,  that  I  was  not 
indifferent  to  you,  else  I  had  never  told  you  of  my 
love.  Oh,  Marian,  if  you  desert  me  now,  I  shall  wish 
that  I  could  die  !" 

Marian  struggled  until  she  released  herself  from  his 
embrace,  and,  standing  before  him,  she  replied  : 

"I  never  dreamed  that  you  thought  of  me,  save  as 
a  friend,  and  if  I  have  encouraged  you,  it  was  because 
— you  reminded  me  of  another.  Oh,  Mr.  Gordon, 
must  I  tell  you  that  long  before  I  came  here,  I  had 
learned  to  love  some  other  man — hopelessly,  it  is  true, 
for  he  does  not  care  for  me  ;  but  that  can  make  n'o 
difference.  Had  I  never  seen  him — never  known  of 
him — I  might — I  would  have  been  your  wife,  for  I 
know  that  you  are  noble  and  good  ;  but  'tis  too  late — 
too  late !" 

He  did  not  need  to  ask  her  now  if  she  were  in  ear- 
nest; for,  looking  up  into  her  truthful,  clear  blue  eyes, 
lie  knew  there  was  no  hope  for  him,  and  bowing  his 
head  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  he  groaned  aloud,  while 
the  heaving  of  his  chest  showed  how  much  he  suffer- 
ed, and  how  manfully  he  strove  to  keep  his  feelings 
down.  Mournfully  Marian  gazed  upon  him,  wishing 
she  had  never  come  there,  if  by  coming  she  had 
brought  this  hour  of  anguish  to  him.  Half  timidly 
she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  head,  for  she  wished  to 
comfort  him  ;  and,  as  he  felt  the  touch  of  her.  fingers, 
he  started,  while  an  expression  of  joy  lighted  up  his 
face,  only  to  pass  away  again  as  he  saw  the  same  un- 
loving look  in  her  eye. 

"  If  I  could  comfort  you,"  she  said,  "  I  would  gladly 
do  it ;  but  I  cannot.  You  will  forget  me  in  time,  Mr. 
Gordon,  and  be  as  happy  as  you  were  before  you  knew 
me." 

He  shook  his  head  despairingly.     "  No  one  could 


264:  WILL'S  WOOING. 

forget  you  ;  and  the  man  who  stands  between  us  must 
be  a  monster  not  to  requite  your  love.  Who  is  he, 
Marian  ?'  or  is  it  not  for  me  to  know  ?" 

"I  would  rather  you  should  not — it  can  do  no  good," 
was  Marian's  reply  ;  and  then  Will  Gordon  pleaded 
f  with  her  to  think  again  ere  she  told  him  so  decidedly 
no.  She  might  outlive  that  other  love.  She  ought 
to.  certainly,  if  'twere  a  hopeless  one  ;  and  if  she  only 
gave  him  half  a  heart,  he  would  be  content  until  he 
won  the  whole.  They  would  go  to  Europe  in  Autumn  ; 
and  beneath  the  sunny  skies  of  Italy  she  would  learn 
to  love  him,  he  knew.  "  Won't  you,  Marian  ?"  and  in 
the  tone  of  his  voice  there  was  a  word  of  eager,  fear- 
ful, yearning  love. 

"  I  can't — I  can't ;  it  is  utterly  impossible  !"  was  the 
decided  answer;  and,  without  another  word,  Will  Gor- 
don rose  and  passed,  with  a  breaking  heart,  from  the 
room  he  had  entered  so  full  of  hope  and  pleasing  an- 
ticipations. 

The  fire  burned  just  as  brightly  in  the  grate  at  home 
as  it  had  done  the  night  before ;  the  gas-light  fell  as 
softly  on  the  roses  in  the  carpet,  and  on  his  mother's 
face  there  was  a  placid,  expectant  look,  as  he  came  in. 
But  it  quickly  vanished  when  she  saw  how  he  pale  he 
was,  and  how  he  crouched  down  into  his  easy  chair, 
as  if  he  fain  would  hide  from  everyone  the  pain  gnaw- 
ing at  his  heart.  There  had  never  been  a  secret  be- 
tween Mrs.  Gordon  and  her  son,  for  in  some  respects 
the  man  of  thirty  was  as  much  a  child  as  ever;  and 
when  his  mother,  coming  to  his  side,  parted  the  damp 
hair  from  his  forehead,  and  looked  into  his  eyes, 
Baying^ 

"  What  is  it,  William  ?  Has  Marian  Grey  refused 
my  boy?'"  he  told  her  all.  How  Marian  Grey  had 
given  her  love  to  another,  and  that  henceforth  the 
world  to  him  would  be  a  dreary  blank. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  terrible  disappointment,  and  as  the 
days  wore  on,  it  told  fearfully  upon  William's  health, 


WILL'S  WOOING.  265 

until  at  last  the  mother  sought  an  interview  with  Ma- 
rian Grey,  beseeching  her  to  think  again. 

_"  You  can  be  happy  with  William,"  she  said,  "and  T 
had  prepared  myself  to  love  you  as  a  daughter.  Do,  1 
beseech  of  you,  give  me  some  hope  to  carry  back  to 
my  poor  boy?" 

"  I  cannot — I  cannot !" 

And,  laying  her  head  in  the  motherly  lap  of  Mrs. 
Gordon,  Marian  wept  bitterly — half  tempted,  more 
than  once,  to  tell  her  the  whole  truth. 

But  this  she  did  not  do,  and  she  wept  on,  while  Mrs. 
Gordon's  tears  kept  company  with  her  own. 

"Don't  you  like  my  Willian?"  she  asked,  uncon- 
sciously playing  with  the  bright  hair  resting  on  her 
lap. 

"  Yes — very,  very  much  ;  but  I  loved  another  first." 
And  this  was  all  the  satisfaction  Marian  could  give. 

Mrs.  Sheldon  next  tried  her  powers  of  persuasion, 
pleading  for  herself  quite  as  much  as  for  her  brother, 
for  she  loved  the  young  girl  dearly,  and  would  gladly 
have  called  her  sister.  But  naught  which  she  could 
say  had  the  least  effect,  and  Ellen  determined  to  see 
what  she  could  do.  She  had  been  very  indignant  at 
first,  to  think  a  poor  teacher  should  refuse  her  brother, 
and  something  of  this  spirit  manifested  itself  during 
her  interview  with  Marian. 

UI  am  astonished  at  you,"  she  said;  "for,  though 
we  have  ever  treated  you  as  our  equal,  you  must  know 
that  in  point  of  family  you  are  not,  and  my  brother 
has  done  what  few  young  men  in  hia  standing,  would 
have  done.  Why,  there  never  w;is  a  gentleman  in 
Springfield  whom  the  girls  accounted  a  better  match 
than  William,  unless  it  were  Mr.  .Raymond  from  Ken- 
tucky, and  they  only  gave  him  the  preference  because 
he  lives  South,  and  possibly  has  a  wife  somewhere. 
So  they  could  not  get  him,  if  they  wished  to.  Now, 
if  you  were  in  love  with  him,  and  he  were  not  already 
married,  I  should  not  think  so  strangely  of  your  con- 
duct, for  he  may  be  Will's  superior  in  some  respects  ; 

12 


266  WILL  S    WOOING. 

but  I  cannot  conceive  of  your  refusing  him  for  any 
common  man  such  as  would  be  likely  to  address  you." 

Marian  did  not  tbink  it  necessary  to  reply  in  sub- 
stance to  this  long  speech,  neither  did  she,  by  "word  or 
look,  resent  Ellen's  overbearing  manner ;  but  she  an- 
swered, as  she  always  did  : 

"  I  would  marry  your  brother,  if  I  could  ;  but  I  can- 
not." 

u  Then  I  trust  you  will  have  a  pleasant  time  teach- 
ing all  your  days,"  said  Ellen,  as  she  slammed  the  door 
behind  her,  and  went  to  report  her  success. 

All  this  trouble  and  excitement  wore  upon  Marian, 
and  after  a  time  she  became  too  ill  to  leave  her  room, 
where  she  kept  her  bed,  sometimes  'fancying  it.  all  a 
dream — sometimes  resolving  to  tell  the  people  who  she 
was,  and  always  weeping  over  the  grief  she  had  brought 
to  William  Gordon,  who,  during  her  illness,  showed 
how  noble  and  good  he  was  by  caring  for  her  as  ten- 
derly as  if  she  had  indeed  been  his  promised  bride. 
He  did  not  see  her,  but  he  made  his  presence  felt,  in  a 
thousand  different  ways,  and  when  they  told  him  how 
her  tears  would  drop  upon  the  fresh  bouquets  he  sent 
her  from  the  green-house  every  morning,  he  would 
turn  away  to  keep  his  own  from  falling. 

One  night,  toward  the  last  of  March,  as  he  sat  with 
his  mother  in  the  same  room  where  he  first  told  her  of 
his  love  lor  Marian  Grey,  the  door-bell  rang,  and  a 
moment  after,  to  his  great  surprise,  Frederic  Raymond 
walked  into  the  room.  William  had  forgotten  what 
his  friend  had  said  about  the  possibility  of  his  coming 
north  earlier  than  usual,  and  he  was  so  much  aston- 
ished that  for  some  moments  he  did  not  appear  like 
himself. 

"  You  know  I  wrote  that  business  might  bring  me 
to  Albany,"  said  Frederic,  "  and  that  if  I  caine  so  far 
I  should  visit  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now,"  returned  William,  the 
color  mounting  to  his  forehead  as  he  recalled  the  na- 
ture of  the  last  letter  written  to  Frederic,  who,  from 


WILL'S  WOOING.  267 

his  manner,  guessed  that  something  was  wrong,  and 
forbore  questioning  him  until  they  retired  to  their 
room  for  the  night. 

"  Fred,"  said  William,  after  they  had  talkel  awhile 
on  indifferent  subjects,  "  Fred,"  and  Will's  feet  went 
up  into  a  chair,  for  even  a  man  who  has  been  refused 
feels  better,  and  can  tell  it  better,  with  his  heels  a  lit- 
tle elevated,  "Fred,  it's  all  over  with  me,  and  it  makes 
no  difference  now  whether  the  sun  rises  in  the  east  or 
in  the  west." 

"  I  suspected  as  much,"  returned  Frederic,  "  from 
your  failing  to  write  and  from  the  length  of  your  face. 
What  is  the  matter  ?  You  didn't  coax  hard  enough,! 
reckon,  and  I  shall  have  to  undertake  it  for  you.  How 
would  you  like  that?  I  dare  say  I  should  be  more 
successful,"  and  Frederic's  smile  was  much  like  the 
Frederic  of  other  days,  when  he  and  Will  were  college 
friends  together. 

"  I  said  everything  a  man  could  say,  but  the  chief 
difficulty  is  that  she  don't  love  me  and  do<'S  love  an- 
other," returned  Will,  at  the  same  time  repeating  to 
his  companion  as  much  of  h:'s  experience  as  he  thought 
proper. 

"A  discouraging  beginning,  I  confess,"  said  Freder- 
ic ;  "  but  perhaps  she  will  relent." 

"  No  she  won't,"  returned  Will  ;  "  she  is  just  as  de- 
cided now  as  she  was  that  night.  I  have  exhausted  all 
my  persuasion  ;  mother  has  coaxed,  so  has  Mary,  sT> 
has  Nell,  and  all  to  no  purpose.  Marian  Grey  can, 
never  be  my  wife.  If  it  were  not  for  this  other  love, 
though,  I  would  not  give  it  up." 

"  \VTho  is  the  favored  one  ?"  Frederic  asked,  and  his 
friend  replied,  "Some  rascal,  I  dare  say,  for  she  says 
it  is  a  hopeless  attachment  on  her  part,  and  that  makes 
it  all  the  worse.  Now  if  I  knew  the  man  was  worthy 
of  her,  I  should  not  feel  so  badly.  If  it  were  you,  for 
instance,  or  somebody  like  you,  I'd  try  to  be  satisfied, 
knowing  she  was  quite  as  well  off  as  she  would  be  with 
me,"  and  Will's  feet  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  chair  as 


268  WILL'S  WOOING. 

he  thought  how  magnanimous  he  would  be  were  it 
Frederic  Raymond  who  was  beloved  by  Marian  Grey. 

"lam  sorry  for  37ou,"  said  Frederic — "sorry  that 
yon,  too,  must  walk  under  a  cloud,  as  I  am  doing.  We 
little  thought,  when  we  were  boys,  that  we  should  both 
be  called  to  bear  a  heavy  burden ;  but  thus  has  it 
proved.  Mine  cnme  sooner  than  yours,  and  it  seems 
to  me  'tis  the  hardest  of  the  two  to  bear." 

"  Fred,  you  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  Your 
grief  cannot  be  as  great  as  mine,  for  I  love  Marian 
Grey  as  man  never  loved  before,  and  when  she  told 
me  '  No,'  and  I  knew  she  meant  it,  I  felt  as  if  she  were 
tearing  out  my  very  heartstrings.  You  acknowledge 
that  you  never  loved  your  wife  ;  but  you  married  her 
for — I  don't  know  what  you  married  for. 

"  For  MONEY  !"  And  the  word  dropped  slowly  from 
Frederic's  lips. 

"  For  money  ?"  repeated  Will.  "  She  had  no  money 
— this  Marian  Lindsey.  She  was  a  poor  orphan,  I  al- 
ways thought.  AVill  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  have  never  told  a  living  being  why  I  made  that 
girl  my  wife,"  said  Frederic;  "but  I  can  trust  you,  I 
know,  and  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  might  feel  bet- 
ter if  some  one  shared  my  secret.  Still,  I  would  rath- 
er not  explain  to  you  how  Marian  was  the  heiress  of 
Redstone  Hall,  for  that  concerns  the  dead;  but  heiress 
she  was,  not  only  of  all  that,  but  of  all  the  lands  and 
houses  said  to  belong  to  the  Raymond  estate  in  Ken- 
tucky ;  not  a  cent  of  it  was  mine ;  and,  rather  than  give 
it  up,  1  married  her  without  one  particle  of  love — • 
married  her,  too,  when  she  did  not  know  of  her  for- 
tune, but  supposed  herself  dependent  upon  me." 

"  Oh,  Frederic,  did  you  thus  wrong  that  girl  ?  I 
never  thought  you  capable  of  such  an  act.  I  knew 

you  did  not  love  her,  but  the  rest .  It  hurts  me 

to  think  you  did  it,  and  that  you  still  live  on  her 
money." 

"  Hush,  Will  !"  And  Frederic  bowed  his  head  for 
verj*  shame.  "  I  deserve  your  censure,  I  know,  but  if 


WILL'S  WOOING.  269 

my  sin  was  great — great  has  been  my  punishment. 
Look  at  me,  Will.  1  am  not  the  light  hearted  man 
you  parted  with  six  years  ago  upon  the  college  green; 
for,  since  that  dreadful  night  when  I  first  knew  poor 
Marian  had  fled,  and  thought  she  was  in  the  river,  I 
have  not  had  a  single  moment  of  perfect  peace  or  free- 
dom from  remorse.  I  have  not  spent  more  of  her 
money  either  than  I  could  help.  Bad  as  I  am,  I  shrink 
from  that.  Redstone  Hall  grew  hateful  to  me — it  was 
haunted  with  so  many  bitter  memories  of  her,  and  was, 
besides,  the  place  where  I  sinned  against  her  a  second 
time  by  daring  to  think  of  another — of  Isabel.  You 
remember  her?"  v 

"Fred  Raymond!"  and  in  his  indignation,  Will's 
feet  came  down  from  the  top  of  the  chair,  "  you  did 
not  aggravate  your  guilt  by  talking  of  love  to  her  f" 

"  No,  no,"  groaned  Frederic,  "  I  did  not,  though 
Heaven  only  knows  the  fierce  struggle  it  cost  me  to 
see  her  there  every  day.  and  know  1  must  not  say  one 
word  to  her  of  love.  I  left  Redstone  Hall  at  last,  as 
you  know.  Left  it  because  it  was  Marian's  and  Riv- 
erside was  my  father's,  before  Marian  came  to  us ;  so 
it  did  not  seem  quite  so  much  like  spending  her  money, 
for  I  did  try  to  be  a  man  and  earn  my  own  living. 
They  did  not  get  on  well  -without  me  in  Kentucky. 
They  needed  me  there  a  part  of  the  time,  at  least ;  and 
when,  at  last,  I  began  to  feel  differently  toward  Marian, 
I  felt  less  delicacy  about  her  fortune,  and  I  have  spent 
my  winters  at  Redstone  Hall,  where  the  negroes  and 
the  neighbors  around  all  suppose  Marian  dead,  for  I 
have  never  told  them  that  she  was  with  me  in  New 
York.  Isabel  knows  it,  but  for  some  reason  she  has 
kept  it  to  herself;  and  I  am  glad,  for  I  would  rather 
people  should  nut  talk  of  it  until  she  is  really  found. 
I  have  sought  for  her  so  long  and  unsuccessfully  that 
I'm  growing  discouraged  now." 

"  If  you  knew  that  she  was  dead,  would  you  marry 
[sabel?"  asked  Will ;  and  Frederic  replied, 

"  Never  1' 


270  WILL'S  WOOING. 

Then,  in  a  reverent  tone,  as  if  speaking  of  one  above 
him  in  purity  and  innocence,  he  told  how  the  little 
blind  girl  had  stood  between  him  and  temptation, 
holding  up  his  hands  when  they  were  weakest,  and 
keeping  his  feet  from  falling.  ''"But  that  desire  is 
over.  I  can  look  Isabel  Huntington  calm  in  the 
face  and  experience  no  sensation,  save  that  of  relief,  * 
to  think  I  have  escaped  her.  With  the  legacy  left  her 
by  Mr.  Rivers,  and  the  little  means  her  mother  had, 
she  has  bought  a  small  house  near  Riverside  ;  so  I 
shall  have  them  for  neighbors  every  Summer.  But  I 
do  not  care.  I  have  no  love  now  for  Isabel.  It  all 
died  out  when. I  was  sick,  and  centered  itself  upon 
that  little  sweet-faced  girl,  who,  I  know,  was  Marian, 
though  I  cannot  find  her.  If  I  could,  Will,  I'd  will- 
ingly part  with  every  cent  of  money  I  call  mine,  and 
work  for  my  daily  bread.  Labor  would  not  seem  a 
hardship,  if  I  knew  that  when  my  toil  was  done,  there 
was  a  darling  wife  waiting  for  me  at  home — a  wife 
like  what  I  hope  my  Marian  is,  and  like  what  your 
Marian  Grey  may  be." 

"  Not  mine,  Frederic.  There  is*  in  all  the  world  no 
Marian  for  me,"  said  Will. 

"  Nor  for  me,  perhaps,"  was  the  sad  response,  and 
in  the  diin  firelight,  the  two  mournful  faces  looked 
wistfully  at  each  other,  as  if  asking  the  sympathy  neith- 
er had  to  give. 

And  there  they  sat  until  the  clock  in  the  room  be- 
low, struck  the  hour  of  midnight.  Two  weary  heart- 
broken men,  in  the  pride  of  their  early  manhood,  sat 
talking  each  to  the  other,  one  of  "My  Marian,"  and 
one  of  "  Mine  ;"  but  never,  never  dreaming  that  the 
beautiful  Marian  Grey,  so  much  beloved  by  William 
Gordon,  was  the  lost  Marian  so  greatly  mourned  by 
Frederic  Raymond. 


CHAPTER  XXH. 

THE    BIRTHDAY. 

MRS.  GORDON'S  breakfast  bell  rang  several  times 
next  morning  ere  the  yonng  men  made  their  appear- 
ance, for,  as  a  natural  consequence,  the  late  hours  of 
the  previous  night  had  been  followed  by  protracted 
slumbers.  As  they  were  making  their  hasty  toilet, 
Frederic  said  to  Will : 

"  This  is  Marian's  twentieth  birthday." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?"  returned  Will.  "  It  seems  but 
yesterday  since  I  saw  her,  a  little  girl  in  pantalets, 
with  long  curls  streaming  down  her  back.  I  liked  her 
ver}T  much,  she  seemed  so  kind,  so  considerate  of  every 
one's  comfort ;  and  I  remember  telling  you  once  that 
she  would  be  a  handsome  woman,  while  you  said— 
'  Never,  with  that  hair  !'  " 

u  Neither  can  she,"  rejoined  Frederic.  "  She  may 
be  rather  pretty.  Yes,  I  am  sure  she  is  pretty,  for  the 
face  which  bent  over  my  pillow  was  not  an  ugly  one ; 
but  I  still  insist  that  a  woman  with  red  hair  cannot  be 
handsome." 

"  Tastes  differ,"  returned  Will.  "  Now,  I'll  venture 
to  say  Miss  Grey's  hair  was  red  when  she  was  a  child. 
It  is  not  very  far  from  it  now,  in  the  sunlight ;  and 
everybody  speaks  ot'her  hair  as  her  crowning  beauty." 

"  I  wish  1  could  see  her,"  said  Frederic ;  "  for,  as 
she  will  not  be  your  wife,  I  suppose  she  will  be  Alice's 
governess.  And  it  is  quite  proper  that  I  should  have 
an  interview  with  her,  and  talk  the  matter  over.  Will 
you  call  with  rue  this  evening?" 


272  THE    BIRTHDAY. 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Will  ;  "  for,  though  it  will 
afford  me  more  pain  than  pleasure  to  meet  her,  I  will 
not  be  so  foolish  as  to  avoid  her." 

Breakfast  being  over,  the  young  men  started  for  a 
walk  down  town,  going  by  Mrs.  Sheldon's  house,  of 
course,  although  it  was  entirely  out  of  their  way.  But 
neither  thought  of  this,  and  they  passed  it  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  street;  so  that  Will  could,  unob- 
served, point  out  Marian's  room  to  Frederic. 

"That's  it,"  he  said — "the  one  with  the  blinds 
thrown  open.  There  she  has  often  sat,  I  suppose, 
thinking  of  the  villain  who  stands  between  me  and 
happiness.  The  rascal !  I  tell  you,  Fred,  I  wish  I  had 
him  as  near  to  me  as  you  are!"  and  Will  Gordon  fan- 
cied how,  in  such  a  case,  he  would  treat  a  man  who 
did  not  love  Marian  Grey  ! 

Frederic  made  no  answer,  for  his  eyes  were  fixed  in- 
tently upon  the  window,  hoping  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
one  who  was  fast  becoming  an  object  of  interest  even 
to  him.  But  he  looked  in  vain,  for  Marian  had  not 
yet  risen.  Pale,  weary  and  weak,  she  reclined  among 
her  pillows,  her  fair  hair  falling  about  her  face  in 
beautiful  disorder,  and  her  eyes  turned  also  toward  the 
window,  not  because  she  knew  that  Frederic  was  look- 
ing in  that  direction,  but  because  the  morning  sun  was 
shining  there,  and  she  was  watching  it  as  it  danced 
upon  the  curtain  of  bright  crimson. 

"  I  have  seen  the  suns  of  twenty  years,"  she 
thought,  "  and  I  am  growing  old  so-  fast.  I  wonder  if 
Frederic  would  know  me  now." 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Sheldon  came  in,  and  advanc- 
ing toward  the  window,  looked  down  into  the  street. 
Catching  a  view  of  her  brother  and  his  friend,  she  ex- 
claimed : 

"  Frederic  Raymond  I     I  wonder  when  he  came  ?" 

"What?  Where?  Who  is  it?"  Marian  asked, 
quickly,  at  the  same  time  raising  herself  upon  her 
elbow,  and  looking  wistfully  in.  the  direction  Frederic 
had  gone. 


THE   BIRTHDAY.  273 

"  Mr.  "Raymond,  Will's  friend,  from  Kentuckj',"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Sheldon.  "  He  must  have  come  last 
night?"  and  as  little  Fred  just  then  called  to  her  from 
without,  she  left  the  room. 

When  she  was  alone,  Marian  buried  her  face  in  the 
bed-clothes,  and  murmured: 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  see  him  !  I  long  so  to  test  his 
powers  of  recognition,  and  see  if  he  would  know  me." 

•She  almost  hoped  he  would,  and  claim  her  for  his 
wife,  as  this,  she  fancied,  might  cure  Will  Gordon 
sooner  than  aught,  else  which  could  be  done.  She  was 
sure  they  would  talk  of  her,  for  Frederic  had  bidden 
Will  propose,  and  he  would  naturally  ask  the  result 
of  that  proposal.  Will  would  say  she  had  refused  him 
because  she  loved  another,  and  would  not  something 
whisper  to  her  husband  that  "  the  other  "was  himself 
— that  Marian  Grey  was  his  Marian — the  Marian  of 
Redstone  Hall — and  he  would  come  to  her  that  very 
day,  perhaps,  and  all  the  morning  she  waited  anxi- 
ously for  a  step  she  was  certain  she  would  know, 
though  it  might  not  be  as  elastic  and  bounding  as  of 
old,  ere  she  had  trammeled  it  with  a  heavy  weight. 
She  listened  nervously  for  its  full,  rich  tones,  asking 
for  her,  in  the  parlor  below.  But  she  listened  in  -am 
and  the  restless  excitement  brought  on  a  severe  head- 
ache, which  rendered  it  impossible  for  her  to  leave  the 
room,  even  if  he  came.  This  Mrs.  Sheldon  greatly  la- 
mented, for  she  had  invited  the  young  men  to  tea,  and 
while  accepting  her  invitation,  Will  had  asked  if  Miss 
Grey  would  not  be  able  to  spend  a  part  of  the  evening 
with  them. 

"She  is  to  be  Fred's  governess,  you  know,"  he  said, 
"and  he  naturally  wishes  to  make  her  acquaintance." 

This  request  Mrs.  Sheldon  made  known  to  Marian, 
who  asked,  eagerly,  if  "  to-morrow  would  not  do  as 
well  ?" 

"It  might,"  returned  Mrs.  Sheldon,  "were  it  not 
that  he  leaves  on  the  early  train." 

Marian  sighed  deeply,  and  turning  upon  her  pillow 

12* 


274  T1IE   BIRTHDAY. 

tried  to  sleep,  hoping  thus  to  lose  the  throbbing  pain 
in  her  head — but  it  would  not  be  lost;  and  when,  as  it 
was  growing  dark,  she  heard  the  sound  of  feet  upon 
the  gravelled  walk,  and  knew  whose  feet  they  were, 
it  ached  as  it  had  not  done  before  during  the  entire  day. 
She  heard  them  as  they  entered  the  lower  hall,  and 
fancied  she  saw  Frederic  place  his  hat  and  shawl  upon 
the  stand,  and  pass  his  fingers  through  his  hair  ere  he 
entered  the  parlor,  which  was  directly  beneath  her 
room.  She  knew  when  he  was  there,  for  she  heard  his 
well-remembered  voice  speaking  to  the  children,  and 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands  she  wept  aloud  to 
think  she  should  not  see  him. 

Meantime,  in  the  parlor  below,  little  Fred  had 
climbed  into  his  uncle's  lap  and  commenced  a  rather 
embarrassing  conversation.  Somehow  Will  reminded 
him  of  Marian,  for  the  two  were  associated  together 
in  his  mind  ;  and  he  said,  rather  as  a  piece  of  news: 
"  Miss  Day  is  sick — up  stairs  she  is  ;  and  when  I  told 
her  you  was  comin'  she  vomuckvd  and  cried  so  hard!" 

Frederic  could  not  help  laughing,  and,  emboldened 
by  this  proof  of  appreciation,  the  child  continued  : 
u  "What  made  her  cry,  Uncle  "Will  ?  I  asked  her  didn't 
she  want  you  to  come,  and  she  say  yes.  Don't  she 
like  you  ?" 

'•  I  guess  not,"  said  "Will,  trying  himself  to  laugh, 
while  Frederic,  pitying  his  embarrassment,  strove  to 
divert  the  little  fellow's  mind  by  asking  about  the  sled 
he  saw  upon  the  steps  as  he  came  in. 

This  had  the  desired  effect,  for  a  sled  was  of  more 
consequence  to  Fred  than  Miss  Grey's  tears,  and  he 
prattled  on  about  it  until  his  nurse  came  to  take  him 
from  the  room.  After  he  was  gone  Mr.  Raymond 
spoke  of  Miss  Grey,  asking  if  ho  should  not  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her. 

"She  is  suffering  from  a  nervous  headache,"  re- 
turned Mrs,  Sheldon,  "  and  cannot  come  down,  foi 
which  I  am  very  sorry,  as  I  wish  you  to  hear  hei 
play." 


THE   BIRTHDAY.  275 

"  I  do  not  care  so  much  for  that,"  returned  Frederic, 
"  as  for  seeing  her,  so  as  to  carry  back  a  good  account 
to  Alice.  Do  tell  me,  Mrs.  Sheldon,  is  she  really  as 
beautiful,  and  fascinating,  and  accomplished  as  report 
would  make  her  out  to  be  ?" 

"  I  should  say  she  would  folly  warrant  any  praise 
you  may  have  heard  of  her,"  returned  Mrs.  Sheldon, 
"  although  her  beauty  is  not  of  the  brilliant  style.  She 
is  very  modest  and  gentle  in  her  appearance,  and  thjere 
is  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  smile  something  so  very  sad 
and  plaintive,  that  I  often  feel  like  crying  when  I  look 
at  her,  for  I  know  she  must  have  suffered  some  great 
trouble,  young  as  she  is." 

Involuntarily  Frederic  and  William  glanced  at  each 
other,  for  they  knew  what  that  trouble  was,  and  the 
latter  felt  as  if  he  would  like  to  take  vengeance  on  the 
man  who  could  be  indifferent  to  love  like  that  of  Ma- 
rian Grey ! 

After  a  moment,  Mrs.  Sheldon  continued  : 

"There  has  been  something  said,  I  believe,  about 
her  going  to  you  next  September,  but  I  warn  you  now 
that  I  shall  use  every  possible  effort  to  keep  her.  We 
sail  for  Europe  in  August,  you  know,  and  she  will  be 
of  invaluable  service  to  me  then,  as  she  speaks  French 
and  German  so  readily.  The  tour,  too,  will  do  her 
good,  and  you  must  not  be  surpdsed  to  hear  that  she 
cannot  come  to  Riverside." 

Mr.  Raymond  was  too  polite  to  oppose  Mrs.  Sheldon 
openly,  but  he  had  become  too  deeply  interested  in 
Marian  Grey  to  give  her  up  without,  a  struggle,  and 
when  alone  again  with  Will,  in  the  chamber  of  the 
latter,  he -broached  the  subject,  asking  his  companion 
if  he  thought  there  was  any  probability  of  Miss  Grey's 
disappointing  him. 

v  r  mean  to  write  her  a  note,"  he  said,  and    sitting 

dpwn^Will's  writing  desk  he  took  up  a  sheet  of 

gilt  edgetv^aper  an(j  commenced,  "  My  dear  Marian." 

•^>5il,1,aAV  V^"^   exclaimed,    "what   am   I   thinking 

about*'  and  teVng  up  the  sheet  he  threw  it  into  the 


276  THE   BIRTHDAY 

grate  and  commenced  again,  addressing  her  this  time 
as  "  Miss  Grey." 

He  considered  her  services  engaged  to  himself,  he 
said,  and  should  expect  her  at  Riverside  early  in  Sep- 
tember. She  could  come  sooner  if  she  liked,  for  Mrs. 
Jones  was  to  leave  the  first  of  August. 

"  That  European  trip  may  tempt  her,"  he  thought, 
and  he  added,  "  I  am  glad  to  learn  from  Mi's.  Sheldon 
that  you  are  such  a  proficient  in  German  and  French, 
for  I  have  serious  thoughts  of  visiting  the  Old  World 
myself  ere  long,  and  as  Alice,  of  course,  will  go  with 
me,  we  shall  prize  your  company  all  the  more  on  ac- 
count of  these  accomplishments." 

This  note  he  gave  to  "Will,  who  said,  "  Perhaps  I 
shall  try  again,  and  if  I  succeed,  I  suppose  you  will 
give  her  up  to  me." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Frederic,  ''I'll  give  way  for  Will 
Gordon's  wife,  but  for  no  one  else,"  and  there  the  con- 
versation ceased  concerning  Marian  Grey  ;  nor  was  it 
resumed  again,  for  early  the  next  morning  he  started 
for  New  York,  as  he  intended  stopping  at  Riverside 
ere  he  returned  to  Kentucky. 

True  to  his  trust,  Will  gave  the  note  to  Marian  the 
first  time  that  he  met  her,  after  she  was  well  enough 
to  come  down  stairs  as  usual. 

"  It  is  from  Mr.  Raymond,"  he  said,  and  Marian's 
face  was  scarlet  as  she  took  it  and  looked  into  his  eye 
with  an  eager,  searching  glance,  to  see  if  he  knew  her 
secret." 

But  he  did  not,  and  with  spirits  which  began  to  ebb, 
she  broke  the  seal  and  read  the  few  brief  lines,  half 
smiling  as  she  thought  how  very  formal  and  business- 
like they  were.  But  it  was  Frederic's  hand-writing, 
and  when  sure  Will  did  not  see  her  she  pressed  it  to 
her  lips. 

"  What  you  do  that  for?"  asked  little  Fred  wn°so 
sharp  eyes  saw  everything  not  intended  f'1'  them  to 
see. . 


THE   BIRTHDAY.  277 

"  Sli — sh,"  said  Marian  ;  but  the  child  persisted. 
"Say,  what  you  tiss  that  letter  for?" 

Will  Gordon  was  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  but, 
at  this  strange  question,  he  turned  quickly  and  fast- 
ened his  eyes  on  Marian's  face,  as  if  he  would  fathom 
her  inmost  soul. 

.  "There's  something  there,"  she  said,  passing  the 
note  again  over  her  lips  as  if  she  would  brush  the 
"  something"  away. 

This  explanation  was  wholly  satisfactory  to  Fred, 
who,  with  childish  simplicity,  asked,  "  Did  you  get 
it?" 

But  Will  was  not  quite  certain,  and  for  several  days 
he  puzzled  his  brain  with  wondering  whether  "Marian 
Grey  really  did  kiss  Frederic  Raymond's  note  or  not." 
If  so,  why  did  she  ?  She  could  not  be  in  love  with  a 
man  she  had  never  seen.  She  was  not  weak  enough 
for  that,  and  at  last  rejecting  it  as  an  impossibility  and 
accepting  the  troublesome  "something"  as  a  reality, 
his  mind  became  at  rest  upon  that  subject. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MARIAN     RAYMOND. 

VERY  rapidly  the  Spring  passed  away,  enlivened 
once  by  a  short  visit  from  Ben,  who,  having  purchased 
an  entire  new  suit  of  clothes  for  the  occasion,  looked 
and  appeared  unusually  well,  talking  but  little  until  he 
was  alone  with  Marian,  when  his  tongue  was  loosed, 
and  he  told  her  all  he  had  come  to  tell. 

He  had  been  to  Riverside,  he  said,  and  Mrs.  Rus- 
sell, who  was  still  there  and  was  to  be  the  future  house- 
keeper, was  very  gracious  to  him,  on  account  of  his  be- 
ing the  adopted  brother  of  their  next  governess,  Miss 
Grey. 

"  She  showed  me  your  chamber,"  said  he,  "  and  it's 
the  very  one  they  tixed  up  so  nice  for  Isabel.  Nobody 
has  ever  used  it,  for  Miss  Jones  slep'  in  a  little  room 
at  the  end  of  the  hall.  Frederic  has  had  a  door  cut 
from  Alice's  chamber  into  yourn,  'cause  he  said  how't 
you  and  she  would  want  to  be  near  to  each  other,  he 
knew.  And  I'll  tell  you  what,  when  you  git  there,  it 
seems  to  me  you'll  be  as  nigh  Heaven  as  you'll  ever  git 
in  this  world.  Mrs.  Huntington  has  bought  a  little  cot- 
tage close  by  Frederic's,"  he  continued,  "  and  she's 
livin'  there  with  Isabel,  who  has  got  to  be  an  heir " 

"  An  heiress  !"  repeated  Marian.     "  Whose,  pray  ?'' 

"Don't  know,"  returned  Ben,  "  only  that  ok1  Ilian 
she  went  to  Florida  with  is  dead,  and  he  \*Yled  her 
some.  I  don't  know  how  much,  but  law  olie  ™  spend 
it  in  no  time.  Mrs.  Russell  said  her  lj-e  Cl»'tains  cost 
an  awful  sight,  though  she  b'liev^  theJ  was  bought 


MABIAN    KA.YMOND.  279 

Becond-hand,  in  New  York.  I  walked  by  there  afoot 
to  see  'em,  and  between  you  and  me  they  are  yallerer 
than  satfern.  My  advice  to  her  is  that  she  bile  'em  up 
in  ashes  and  water,  jest  as  mother  used  to  bile  up  my 
shirts  that  I  wore  in  the  factory.  It'll  whiien  'era 
quickest  of  anything,  and  if  1's  you  I'd  kinder  tell  her 
60 — friendly  like,  you  know — 'cause  it  don't  look  well 
for  decent  folks  to  have  such  dirty  things  a  hangiu'  to 
their  winders  !" 

Marian  smiled  at  Ben's  simplicity,  telling  him  that 
"  the  chief  value  of  the  curtains  consisted  probably  in 
their  soiled,  yellow  appearance." 

"  Whew,"  whistled  Ben,  "  I  wish  mother'd  had  a 
little  more  larnin',  for  if  she'd  known  it  was  genteel  to 
be  dirty,  mabby  she  wouldn't  have  broke  her  back  a 
scrubbing  when  there  warn't  no  use  on't." 

Isabel's  curtains  having  been  discussed  at  length, 
and  herself  described  as  Ben  saw  her  "struttin'  through 
the  streets,"  he  arose  to  go,  telling  Marian  he  should 
not  probably  see  her  again  until  he  visited  her  in  the 
Autumn  at  Riverside. 

"  I  guess  I  wouldn't  let  it  all  out  at  once,"  said  he, 
"but  wait  and  let  Frederic  sweat.  It'll  do  him  good, 
and  he  isn't  paid  yet  for  all  he's  made  you  suffer.  I 
ain't  no  Univorsaler,  but  I  do  like  to  see  folks  catch  it 
as  they  go  'long." 

Once  Marian  thought  to  tell  him  of  "William  Gor-* 
don's  unfortunate  attachment,  particularly  as  he  was 
loud  in  his  praises  of  the  young  man  ;  but  upon  second 
reflections  she  decided  to  keep  that  matter  to  herself, 
hoping  that  the  subject  would  never  be  mentioned  to 
her  again.  And  in  this  her  wishes  seemed  to  be  real- 
ized, for  as  the  weeks  after  Ben's  departure  went  by, 
William  began  to  be  more  like  himself  than  he  had 
been  before  since  her  refusal  of  him.  He  came  often 
to  Mrs.  Sheldon's,  sang  with  her  sometimes  as  of  old, 
and  she  fancied  he  was  losing  his  love  for  her.  But 
she  was  mistaken,  for  it  WHS  strengthening  with  each 
hour's  interview.  The  very  hopelessness  of  his 


280  MARIAN   KAYMOND. 

sion  rendered  it  more  intense,  it  would  seem,  until  at 
last,  unable  longer  to  remain  where  she  was,  and  know 
she  could  never  be  his,  he  went  from  home,  nor  re- 
turned again  until  near  the  middle  of  August,  when  he 
found  Mrs.  Sheldon's  house  in  a  state  of  great  confu- 
sion. Furniture  was  being  covered  or  packed  away, 
rooms  shut  up,  and  windows  fastened  down,  while  his 
sister  was  in  that  state  of  feminine  bliss  when  every 
chair  is  tilled  with  new  dresses,  save  two,  and  those 
two  are  occupied  by  the  makers  of  said  dresses. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheldon  were  going  to  Europe.  They 
would  sail  in  about  two  weeks,  and  as  Marian  had  posi- 
tively declined  to  accompany  them,  they  had  engaged 
another  governess,  who  was  to  meet  them  in  New 
York.  It  was  decided  that  Marian  should  remain  a  tew 
days  with  Mrs.  Gordon,  and  then  go  to  Riverside,  where 
her  coming  was  anxiously  expected  both  by  Frederic 
and  Alice.  This  arrangement  was  highly  satisfactory 
to  Will,  who  anticipated  much  happiness  in  having 
her  wholly  to  himself  for  a  week.  There  would  be  no 
sister  Ellen,  with  curious,  prying  eyes,  for  she  was  go- 
ing with  Mrs.  Sheldon  as  far  as  New  York — no  little 
girls  always  in  the  way — no  funny  Fred,  to  see  and 
tell  of  everything — nobody,  in  short,  but  his  good 
mother,  who  he  knew  would  often  leave  him  alone 
with  Marian. 

During  his  absence  from  home  he  had  thu  light 
much  upon  the  subject,  and  had  resolved  to  make  one 
more  trial  at  least.  She  might  be  eventually  won,  and 
if  so,  he  should  care  but  little  for  the  efforts  made  to 
win  her.  With  this  upon  his  mind,  he  felt  rather  re- 
lieved than  otherwise  when  the  family  at  last  were 
gone,  and  Marian  was  an  inmate  of  his  mother's 
house.  Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sheldon  had  urged  him  to 
accompany  them,  and  he  had  made  arrangements  to 
do  sc  in  case  he  found  Marian  still  firm  in  her  refusal. 
They  were  intending  to  stop  for  a  few  days  in  New 
York,  and  he  could  easily  join  them  the  day  on  which 
the  ship  was  advertised  to  sail.  „  He  should  know  hia 


MABIAN    RAYMOND.  281 

fate  before  that  time,  he  thought,  and  lie  strove  in  va- 
rious ways  to  obtain  an  interview  with  Marian,  who, 
divining  his  intention,  was  unusually  reserved  in  her 
demeanor  toward  him,  and  if  by  chance  she  found  her- 
self with  him  alone,  she  invariably  formed  some  ex- 
cuse to  leave  the  room,  so  that  Will  began  at  Jast  to 
lose  all  hope,  and  to  think  seriously  of  joining  his  sis- 
ter as  the  surest  means  of  forgetting  Marian  Grey. 

"  She  does  not  care  for  me,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  one 
night  after  Marian  had  retired.  "  I  believe  she  rather 
dislikes  me  than  otherwise.  I  think  on  the  whole  I 
shall  go,  and  if  so,  I  must  start  in  the  morning,  for  the 
vessel  sails  to-morrow  night." 

To  this  his  mother  made  no  objection,  for  though 
she  would  be  very  lonely  without  him,  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  rely  upon  herself,  so  she  rather  encouraged 
him  than  otherwise,  thinking  it  would  do  him  good. 
Accordingly,  next  morning,  when  Marian,  came  down 
to  breakfast,  she  was  surprised  to  hear  of  Will's  intend- 
ed departure. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  involuntarily,  for  Will 
Gordon  had  a  strong  place  in  her  affections,  and  knew 
not  what  danger  might  befall  him  on  the  deep. 

Breakfast  being  over,  there  remained  to  Will  but 
half  an  hour,  and  as  a  part  of  this  was  necessarily 
spent  with  the  servants,  and  in  preparations  for  his  jour- 
ney, he  had  at  the  last  but  a  few  moments  in  which  to 
say  his  farewell  words  to  Marian.  She  was  in  the  back 
parlor,  his  mother  said,  and  there  he  found  her  weep- 
ing, for  she  felt  that  her  friends  were  leaving  her  one 
by  one,  and  though  in  a  few  days  she  was  going  back 
to  her  husband  and  her  home,  she  knew  not  what  the 
result  would  be.  Will's  sudden  determination  to  visit 
Europe  affected  her  unpleasantly,  for  she  felt  that  she 
was  in  some  way  connected  with  it,  and  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  loneliness,  such  as  she  had  not 
experienced  before  since  she  first  came  to  Mrs.  Shd- 
don's. 


282  MAKIAN   RAYMOND. 

"  Are  you  weeping  ?"  said  Will,  when  he  saw  her  with 
her  head  bowed  down  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 

Marian  did  not  answer,  and  with  newly  awakened 
hope  Will  drew  nearer  aud  seated  himself  beside 
her.  "  It  might  be  that  he  was  mistaken,  after  all," 
he  thought.  "Her  tears  would  seem  to  indicate  as 
much.  Girls  were  strange  beings,  everybody  said," 
and  passing  his  arm  around  the  weeping  Marian,  he 
whispered  :  "  Do  you  like  me,  then?" 
•  "  Yes,  very,  very  much,"  she  answered,  "  and  now 
that  you  are  going  away,  and  I  may  never'  see  you 
again,  I  am  so  sorry  I  ever  caused  you  a  moment's 
pain." 

"  I  needn't  go,  Marian,"  William  said,  drawing  her 
close  to  him.  "  I  will  stay,  oh,  so  gladly,  if  you  bid 
me  do  so.  But  it  must  be  for  you.  Shall  I,  Marian  ? 
May  I  stay  ?"  and  again  Will  Gordon  poured  into  her 
ear  deep  burning  words  of  love — entreating  her  to  be 
his  wife — to  forget  that  other  love  so  unworthy  of  her, 
and  to  give  herself  to  him,  who  would  cherish  her  so 
tenderly.  Then  he  told  her  how  the  thought  that  she 
did  not  love  him  had  made  him  go  away,  when  he 
would  so  much  rather  remain  where  she  was,  if  he 
could  know  she  wished  it.  "  Answer  me,  Marian,"  he 
said,  "  for  time  hastens,  and  if  you  tell  me  no  again,  I 
must  be  gone.  Never  man  loved  and,  worshipped  his 
wife  as  I  will  love  and  worship  you.  Speak  and  tell 
me  yes." 

Will  paused  for  her  reply,  and  looking  into  her  face, 
which  she  had  turned  towards  him,  he  thought  he  read 
a  confirmation  of  his  hopes,  but  the  first  words  she  ut- 
tered wrung  his  heart  with  cruel  disappointment. 

"  I  cannot  be  your  wife,"  she  said.  "  I  mean  it,  Mr. 
Gordon,  I  cannot,  and  oh,  it  would  be  wicked  not  to 
tell  you.  Can  1  trust  you  ?  Will  you  keep  my  secret 
Bate,  as  I  have  kept  it  almost  six  long  years  ?" 

There  was  some  insufferable  barrier  between  them, 
and  William  Gordon  felt  it,  as  trembling  in  every 


MARIAN   KATMOND.  283 

limb,  he  answered,  "Whatever  you  intrust  to  me  shall 
not  be  betrayed." 

"  Then,  listen,"  she  said,  "  and  say  if  you  will  bid 
me  marry  yon.  I  told  you  I  was  not  what  I  seemed, 
and  I  am  not.  People,  perhaps,  call  me  young,  but  to 
toy  self  I  seem  old,  I  have  suffered  so  much  and  all  my 
womanhood  has  been  wasted,  as  it  were,  in  tears.  I 
told  you  once  that  before  coming  here  I  had  given  to 
another  the  love  for  which  you  sued,  and  I  told  you 
truly ;  but  Mr.  Gordon,  there  was  more  to  tell ;  that 
other  one,  who  loves  me  not,  or  who,  if  he  does,  has 
never  manifested  it  to  me  by  word  or  deed,  is  my  own 
husband  /" 

"Oh,  Marian,  Marian,  this  indeed  is  death  itself!'7 

froaned  Will,  for  though  he  had  said  the  re  was  no 
ope,  it  seemed  to  him  now  that  he  had  never  believed 
or  realized  it,  as  when  he  heard  the  dreadful  words, 
"my  own  husband." 

"  Do  not  despise  me  for  deceiving  you,".  Marian  con- 
tinued. "If  I  had  thought  you  could  have  seen  aught 
to  desire  in  me,  a  poor,  humble  girl,  I  might,  perhaps, 
have  warned  you  in  time,  though  how  could  I  tell  you, 
a  stranger,  that  I  was  an  unloved  wife  ?" 

"Where  is  he — that  man?"  Will  asked,  for  he  could 
not  say  "your  husband,"  and  his  lip  quivered  with 
something  akin  to  the  pain  one  feels  when  he  hears  the 
cold  earth  rattling  into  the  grave  where  he  has  buried 
his  fondest  pride. 

Marian's  confession  was  a  death-blow  to  all  Will  had 
dared  to  hope,  and  he  asked  for  the  husband  more  as  a 
matter  of  form  than  because  he  really  cared  to  know. 

"  Mr.  Gordon,"  said  Marian,  rising  to  her  feet, 
and  standing  wijth  her  face  turned  fully  toward 
him,  "Must  I  tell  you  more?  I  thought  I  needed 
only  to  speak  of  a  husband  and  you  would  guess  the 
rost.  L/on't  you  know  me  ?  Have  we  never  met  be- 
foie?" 

Wistfully,  anxiously  William  gazed  at  her,  scanning 
her  features  one  by  one,  while  a  dim  vision  of  something 


2S4:  MARIAN   EAYMOND. 

back  in  the  past  floated  before  him,  but  assumed  no 
tangible  form,  and  shaking  hjs  head,  he  answered : 
"  Never,  to  my  knowledge." 

"  Look  again.  Is  not  my  face  a  familiar  one  ?  Did 
you  never  see  it  before  ?  Not  here — not  in  New 
England — but  far  away,  where  the  Summer  cornea 
earlier  and  the  Winter  is  not  so  long.  Is  there  not 
something  about  me — something  in  my  person,  or  my 
voice,  which  carries  you  back  to  an  old  house  on  the 
river  where  you  once  met  a  little  curly-haired  girl  ?" 

She  did  not  need  to  say  more.  Little  by  little  it  had 
come  to  him,  and,  starting  to  his  feet,  he  caught  her 
hand,  exclaiming,  "  Great  Heaven  !  The  lost  wife  of 
Frederic  Itaymond  /" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "the  lost  Marian  of  Redstone 
Hall,"  and  leaning  her  head  upon  his  arm,  she  burst 
into  tears,  for  he  seemed  to  her  like  a  brother  now, 
while  she  to  him — 

He  could. not  think  of  her  as  a  sister  yet — he  loved 
her  too  well  for  that;  but  still  his  feelings  toward  her 
had  changed  in  the  great  shock  with  which  he  recog- 
nized her.  She  could  never  be  his  Marian,  he  knew, 
neither  did  he  desire  it.  And  for  a  moment  he  stood 
speechless,  wholly  overwhelmed  with  astonishment  and 
wonder.  Then  he  said,  "  Marian  Raymond,  why  are 
you  Jiere  ?" 

"  Why  ?"  she  repeated  bitterly.  "  You  may  well 
ask  why.  Hated  by  him  who  should  care  for  me,  what 
could  I  do  but  go  away  into  the  unknown  world,  and 
throw  myself  upon  its  charities,  which  in  my  case  have 
not  been  cold  or  seltish.  God  bless  the  noble-hearted 
Ben,  and  the  sainted  woman,  his  mother,  who  did  not 
cast  me  oif  when  I  went  to  them,  homeless,  friendless, 
and  heart-broken." 

In  her  excitement,  Marian  clasped  her  hands  togeth 
er,  and  the  blue  of  her  eye  grew  deeper,  darker,  as  she 
paid  this  tribute  of  gratitude  to  those  who  had  been 
her  friends  indeed.  Involuntarily,  Will  Gordon,  too, 
responded  to  the  words,  "  God  bless  the  noble-hearted 


MARIAN    RAYMOND.  285 

Ben,"  for,  looking  at  the  beautiful  girl  before  him,  ho 
felt  that  what  she  was  she  owed  to  the  self-denying, 
unwearied  efforts  of  the  uncultivated  but  generous 
Beu. 

"  Marian,"  he  said  again,  "  you  must  go  home.  Go 
to  your  husband.  He  is  waiting  for  you.  He  has 
sought  for  you  long ;  he  has  expiated  his  sin.  Go,  Ma- 
rian, go " 

"  I  am  going,"  she  answered,  "  and  if  I  only  knew 
he  wanted  me — wanted  his  wife " 

"  He  does  want  you,"  interrupted  Will.  "  He  has 
told  me  so  many  a  time," 

Marian  was  about  to  reply,  when  Mrs.  Gordon  ap- 
peared, warning  her  son  that  the  carriage  was  at  the 
door ;  and  with  a  hurried  farewell  to  Marian  and  his 
mother,  Will  hastened  off,  whispering  to  the  former, 
"  I  shall  write  to  you  when  on  the  sea — " 

"And  keep  my  secret  safe.  I  would  rather  divulge 
it  myself,"  she  added: 

He  nodded  in  the  affirmative,  and  was  soon  on  his 
way  to  the  depot,  so  bewildered  with  what  he  had 
heard,  that  lie  scarcely  knew  whether  it  were  reality  or 
a  dream.  Gradually,  however,  it  became  clear  to  him, 
and  he  remembered  many  things  which  confirmed  the 
strange  story  he  had  heard. 

Greatly  he  wished  to  write  to  Frederic,  and  tell  him 
that  Marian  Grey  was  his  wife,  but  he  would  not  break 
his  promise,  and  he  was  wondering  how  he  could  hasten 
the  discovery,  when,  as  the  cars  left  the  depot  at  Hart- 
ford, a  broad  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder,  and  a 
voice  which  sounded  familiar,  said,  "Wall,  captain, 
beiu'  we're  so  full,  1  guess  you'll  have  to  make  room 
for  me,  or  else  I'll  have  to  set  with  that  gal  whose  hoops 
take  up  the  hull  concern." 

"  Ben  Butterworth,"  Will  exclaimed,  turning  his  face 
toward  the  speaker,  who  recognized  him  at  once. 

"  Wall,"  he  began,  as  he  took  the  seat  Will  readily 
shared  with  him,  "  I  didn't  'spose  'twas  you.  How  do 


286  MARIAN   RAYMOND. 

you  do,  and  how's  Marian  ?  Has  she  gone  to  River- 
Bide  yet  ?" 

"No,"  returned  "Will,  and  looking  Ben  directly  in 
the  face,  he  continued,  "  How  much  of  Miss  Grey's 
histo'ry  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Mor'n  I  shall  tell,  I'll  bet.  How  much  do  you 
know  ?"  and  Ben  set  his  hat  a  little  more  on  one  side 
of  his  head. 

"  More  than  you  suppose,  perhaps,"  returned  Will. 
"  And  if  you,  too,  are  posted,  I'd  like  to  talk  the  matter 
over,  but  if  not,  I  shall  betray  no  secrets." 

"  I  swan,  I  b'lieve  you  do  know,"  said  Ben.  "  Did 
she  tell  you  ?" 

"Will  nodded,  and  Bon  continued,  "  She  wrote  to  me 
that  you  knew  Mr.  Raymond,  and  liked  him,  too;  I 
guess  he  ain't  a  very  bad  chap  after  all,  is  he?" 

The  ice  was  fairly  broken  now,  and  both  Will  and 
Ben  settled  themselves  for  a  long  conversation.  Will 
did  not  think  it  betrayed  Marian's  confidence  to  talk 
of  her  with  one  who  understood  her  affairs  so  much 
better  than  himself,  and  ere  they  reached  New  York, 
he  had  heard  the  whole  story — heard  how  Ben  had 
stumbled  upon  her  in  New  York,  and  taken  her  to  his 
home  \vithout  knowing  aught  of  her,  except  that  she 
was  friendless  and  alone — how  the  mother,  now  resting 
in  her  grave,  had  cared  for  the  orphan  girl,  and  how 
Ben,  too,  had  done  for  her  what  he  could. 

" 'Twan't  much  anyway,"  he  said,  "and  I  never 
minded  it  an  atom,  for  'twas  a  pleasure  to  arn  money 
for  her  schoolinV 

And  Ben  spoke  truly,  for  it  never  occurred  to  him 
that  he  had  denied  himself  as  few  men  would  have 
done — toiling  early  and  late,  through  sunshine  and 
storm,  wearing  the  old  coat  long  after  it  was  thread- 
bare, and  sometimes,  when  pedolijug,  eating  but  two 
meals  a  day,  by  way  of  saving  for  Marian.  Of  all 
this  he  did  not  speak  to  his  companion.  He  did  not 
even  think  of  it,  or,  if  he  did,  he  felt  that  he  was  more 
than  paid  in  seeing  Marian  what  she  was.  Accident 


MABIAN   RAYMOND.  287 

ally,  he  said  that  his  name  was  really  Ben  Burt,  and 
that  lie  should  be  glad  when  the  time  came  for  him  to 
be  called  thus  again. 

"When  will  that  be?"  asked  "Will,  and  Ben  replied 
by  unfolding  to  him  his  long  cherished  plan  of  having 
Frederic  make  love  to  his  own  wife. 

"  You  might  write  to  him,  I  s'pose,"  he  said,  "but 
that,  would  spile  all  my  fun,  and  I'd  rather  let  the  thing 
work  itself  out.  He's  bound  to  fall  in  love  with  her. 
He  can't  help  it,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  could. 
Mabby  you  did."  And  Ben's  grey  eyes  looked  quiz- 
zically at  his  companion,  who  colored  deeply  as  he  re- 
plied merely  to  the  first  part  of  Ben's  remark.  "I 
certainly  will  not  interfere  in  the  matter,  though  before 
meeting  you  I  WHS  wondering  how  I  could  do  so,  and 
not  betray  Marian's  confidence.  I  am  sure  now  it  will 
all  come  right  at  last,  and  you  ought  to  be  permitted 
to  bring  it  round  in  your  own  way,  for  you  have  been 
a  true  friend  to  her,  and  I  dare  say  she  loves  you  as  a 
brother." 

This  was  touching  Ben  on  a  tender  point,  for  his  old 
affection  for  Marian  was  not  quite  dead  yet,  and  Will's 
last  words  brought  back  to  him  memories  of  those 
dreary  winter  nights,  when  in  his  way  he  had  battled 
with  the  love  he  knew  he  must  not  cherish  for  Marian 
Grey.  He  fidgetted  in  his  seat,  got  up  and  looked 
under  him,  sat  down  again  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow, and  repeated  to  himself  a  part  of  the  multiplica- 
tion table,  by  way  of  keeping  from  crying. 

"  Bless  her,  she's  an  angel,"  he  managed  at  last  to 
Bay,  adding,  as  he.  met  the  inquiring  glance  of  Will : 
"  It's  my  misfortin'  to  be  oncommon  tender-hearted, 
and  when  I  git  to  thinkin'  of  somethin'  that  concerns 
nobody  but  me,  I  can't  keep  from  cryin'  no  way  you 
can  fix  it,"  and  two  undeniable  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks  and  dropped  from  the  end  of  his  nose. 

k'  He,  too,"  sighed  Will  Gordon,  and  as  he  thought 
how  much  more  the  uncouth  man  beside  him  had  done 
for  Marian  Grey  than  either  Frederic  or  himself,  and  that 


288  MARIAN   RAYMOND. 

he  really  had  the  greatest  claim  to  her  gratitude  and 
love,  his  heart  warmed  toward  Yankee  Ben  as  to  a 
long  tried  friend,  and  he  resolved  to  leave  for  him  a 
substantial  token  of  his  regard. 

"  Why  don't  you  settle  down,  as  a  grocer,  in  some 
small  country  toivn  ?"  he  asked,  as  they  came  near  the 
city. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Ben,  "for  I'm  gettin' 
kinder  tired  of  travelin'  now  that  there  ain't  no  home 
for  me  to  go  to  once  in  so  often.  I  think  I  should  like 
to  be  a  grocery  man  first  rate,  and  weigh  out  saleratus 
and  bar  soap  to  the  old  wimmen.  Wouldn't  they 
flock  in,  though,  to  see  me,  I'm  so  odd  !  But  'taint 
no  use  to  think  on't  for  I  hain't  the  money  now,  though, 
mabby  I  shall  have  it  bimeby.  My  expenses  ain't  as 
great  as  they  was." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  depot,  and  Will, 
who  knew  they  must  part  there,  said  to  him,  "  How 
long  do  you  stay  in  New  York  ?" 

"  Not  long,"  returned  Ben,  "  I've  only  come  to  re- 
cruit my  stock  a  little." 

u  Go  to  the  Post-Office  before  jou  leave,"  was  Will's 
reply,  as  he  stepped  from  the  platform  and  was  lost  in 
the  crowd. 

"  What  did  he  mean  ?"  thought  Ben.  "  Nobody 
writes  to  me  but  Marian,  and  I  ain't  expectin'  nothin' 
from  her,  but  I  guess  I  may  as  well  go. 

Accordingly,  the  next  night,  when  Will  Gordon, 
with  little  Fred  in  his  anna,  was  looking  out  upon  the 
sea,  Ben  wended  his  way  to  the  office,  inquiring  first 
for  Ben  Butterworth  and  then  for  Ben  Burt.  There 
was  a  letter  for  the  latter,  and  it  contained  a  draft  for 
three  hundred  dollars^  together  with  the  following 
lines : 

"  You  and  I  have  suffered  alke,  and  in  each  of  our 
hearts  there  is  a  hidden  grave.  I  saw  it  in  the  tears 
you  shed  when  talking  to  me  of  Marian  Grey.  Hea- 
ven bless  you,  Ben  Burt,  for  all  you  have  been  to  her, 


MATCIAN   RAYMOND.  289 

She  is  one  of  the  fairest,  best,  of  God's  creation,  bnt 
she  was  not  meant  for  yon  nor  me ;  and  we  must  learn 
to  go  our  way  without  her.  Yon  have  done  for  her 
more,  perhaps,  than  either  Mr.  Raymond  or  myself 
would  have  done  in  the  same  circumstances,  and  thus, 
far  you  are  more  worthy  of  her  esteem.  You  will 
please  accept  the  inclosed  as  a  token  that  I  appreciate 
your  self-denying  labors  for  Marian  Grey.  Use  it 
for  that  grocery  we  talked  about,  if  you  choose,  or 
for  any  purpose  you  like.  If  you  have  any  delicacy 
just  consider  it  a  loan  to  be  paid  when  you  are  a 
richer  man  than  I  am.  You  cannot  return  it,  of 
course,  for  when  you  receive  it  I  shall  be  gone. 

"  Yours,  in  haste,      WILLIAM  GORDON." 

This  letter  was  a  mystery  to  Ben,  who  read  it  again 
and  again,  dwelling  long  upon  the  words,  "  You  and 
I  suffered  alike,  and  in  each  of  our  hearts  there  is  a 
hidden  grave." 

"  That  hits  me  exactly,"  he  said,  "  though  I  never 
thought  of  callin'  that  hole  in  my  heart  a  grave — 
but  'taint  nothin'  else,  for  I  buried  somethin'  in  it, 
and  the  tender  brotherly  feeliri'  I've  felt  for  Marian 
ever  since  was  the  grave  stun  I  set  up  in  memory  of 
what  had  been.  But  what  does  he  know  about  it, 
though  why  shouldn't  he,  for  no  mortal  man  can  look 
in  Marian's  face  and  not  feel  kinder  cold  and  hyster- 
icky-like  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach  !  Yes,  he's  in  love 
with  her,  and  that's  the  way  she  came  to  tell  who  she 
was.  Poor  Bill  !  poor  Bill !  I  know  how  to  pity  him  to 
a  dot/'  and  Ben  heaved  a  deep  sigh  as  he  finished  this 
long  soliloquy. 

Ihe  money  next  diverted  his  attention,  but  no  puz- 
zling on  his  part  could  explain  to  him  satisfactorily 
why  it  had  been  sent. 

'"  S'posin'  he  was  grateful,"  he  said,  "  he  needn't  give 
me  three  hundred  dollars  for  nothin',  but  be  in'  he  lias, 
I  may  as  well  use  it  to  start  in  business,  though  I  shall 
pay  it  back,  of  course,"  and  when  alone  in  his  room 

13 


290  MARIAN    EAYMOND 

at  the  Hotel  where  he  stopped,  he  wrote  upon  a  bit  of 
paper. 

"  NEW  YORK,  August  30  18 — 

"  For  vallj  rec.  I  promise  to  pay  Bill  Gordon,  or 
bearer,  the  sum  of  three  hundred  dollars  with  use  from 
date. 

"  BENJAMIN  BURT." 

This  note  he  put  carefully  away  in  his  old  leathern 
wallet,  where  it  was  as  safe  and  as  sure  of  being  paid 
as  if  it  had  been  in  William  Gordon's  hands  instead  of 
his. 

Meantime  Marian  at  Mrs.  Gordon's  was  half  regret- 
ting that  she  had  told  her  secret  to  William,  and  great- 
ly lamenting  that  they  had  been  interrupted  ere  she 
knew  just  how  much  Frederic  wished  to  find  her. 
That  his  feelings  toward  her  had  changed,  she  was 
sure,  but  she  would  know  by  word  and  deed  that  he 
loved  her  ere  she  revealed  herself  to  him,  and  the  dark 
mystery  of  that  cruel  letter  must  be  explained  before 
she  could  respect  him  as  she  had  once  done.  And  now 
but  a  few  days  remained  ere  she  should  see  him  face 
to  face,  for  she  was  going  to  Riverside  very  soon. 
Some  acquaintance  of  hers  were  going  west  by  way  of 
New  York,  and  she  decided  to  accompany  them, 
though  "by  going  doing  she  would  reach  Riverside  one 
day  earlier  than  she  was  expected. 

"It  would  make  no  difference  of  course,"  she  said, 
and  she  waited  impatiently  for  the  appointed  morning. 

It  came  at  last  and  long  before  the  hour  for  starting 
she  was  ready,  the  dancing  joy  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
apparent  eagerness  to  go  being  sadly  at  variance  with 
the  expression  of  Mrs.  Gordon's  face,  for  the  good  lady 
loved  the  gentle  girl  and  grieved  to  part  with  her. 

"I  am  sorry  to  leave  yon,"  Marian  said,  \vhen  the 
last  moment  came,  "  but  I  am  so  glad  I  am  going,  too, 
sometime,  perhaps,  you  may  know  why  and  then  you 
will  not  blame  me." 


MARIAN    RAYMOND.  291 

She  could  not  shed  a  tear  although  she  had  become 
greatly  attached  to  her  Springfield  home>  and  her  ex- 
citement continued  unabated  until  she  reached  ISTew 
York,  where  they  stopped  for  the  night.  There  were 
several  hours  of  daylight  left,  and  stealing  away  from 
her  friends  she  took  a  Third  Avenue  car  and  went  up  to 
their  old  house  where  strangers  were  living  now.  She 
did  not  care  to  go  in,  for  the  dingy,  uncurtained  win- 
dows looked  far  from  inviting,  and  she  passed  slowly 
down  the  other  side  of  the  street,  musing  upon  all  that 
had  passed  since  the  night  when  she  first  climbed  those 
narrow  stairs,  and  asked  a  mother's  care  from  Mrs. 
Burt.  She  did  not  think  then  that  she  would  ever  be 
as  happy  as  she  was  to-day  with  the  uncertainty  of 
meeting  Frederic  to-morrow.  It  seemed  a  great  while 
to  wait,  and  as  Ben  had  once  numbered  the  weeks  in 
seven  years,  so  she  now  counted  the  hours,  which  must 
elapse  ere  she  felt  the  pressure  of  Frederic's  hand — 
for  he  would  shake  hands  with  her  of  course,  and  he 
would  look  into  her  face,  for  he  had  heard  much  of 
her  both  from  Will  Gordon  and  Ben.  Would  he  be 
disappointed?  Would  he  think  her  pretty?  Would 
he  know  her?  And  Alice — what  would  she  say? 
Marian  dreaded  this  test  more  than  all  the  rest,  for  she 
felt  that  there  was  danger  in  the  instinct  of  the  blind 
girl.  Slowly  she  retraced  her  steps  and  returning  to 
the  Astor,  sought  her  own  room,  informing  her  friends 
that  she  was  weary  and  would  rest. 

"Five  hours  more,"  was  her  first  thought  when  sho 
awoke  next  morning  from  a  sounder  sleep  than  sho 
had  supposed  it  possible  to  enjoy  when  under  such  ex- 
citement. Ere  long  it  was  four  hours  more,  then  three, 
then  two,  then  one,  and  then  the  cars  stopped  at  the 
depot  at  Yonkers.  Two  trunks  marked  "  M.  G."  stood 
upon  the  platform,  and  near  them  a  figure  in  black, 
bowing  to  her  friends,  who  leaned  from  the  car  win- 
dow, and  holding  in  her  hands  a  satchel,  a  silk  um- 
brella, two  checks,  her  purse,  and  a  book,  for  Marian 


/ 


292  MARIAN   RAYMOND. 

possessed  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  and  in  traveling 
always  carried  the  usual  amount  of  baggage. 

"  To  Riverside,"  she  said,  when  asked  where  she 
wished  to  go,  and  she  looked  around  as  if  half  expect- 
ing a  familiar  face. 

But  she  looked  in  vain,  and  in  a  few  moments  she 
was  comfortably  seated  in  the  lumbering  stage,  which 
once  before  had  carried  her  up  that  long  hill.  Eagerly 
she  strained  her  eyes  to  catch  the  first  view  of  the 
house;  and  \vhen  at  last  it  came  in  sight,  she  was  too 
intent  upon  it  to  observe  the  showily-dressed  young 
lady  tripping  along  upon  the  walk,  and  holding  her 
skirts  with  her  thumb  and  finger  so  as  to  show  her 
dainty  slipper. 

But  if  Marian  did  not  see  Isabel,  Isabel  saw  her. 
It  was  not  usual  for  the  stage  to  come  up  at  that  hour 
of  the  day,  and  as  it  passed  her  by,  Isabel  turned  to 
see  where  it  was  going. 

"To  Riverside,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  it  draw 
up  to  the  gate.  "  It  must  be  the  new  governess,"  and 
as  there  was  no  house  very  near,  she  stopped  to  inspect 
the  stranger  as  well  as  she  could  at  that  distance. 
"  Black,"  she  said,  as  Marian  stepped  upon  the  ground  ; 
"But  I  might  have  known  it,  for  regular  built  teach- 
ers always  wear  black,  1  believe.  (She  ia  rather  tall, 
too.  An  umbrella,  of  course.  I  wonder  she  hasn't 
her  blanket  shawl  and  overshoes  this  hot  day.  Her 
bonnet  is  pretty,  and  that  hem  in  her  veil  very  wide. 
On  the  whole,  she's  quite  genteel  for  a  governess," 
and  Isabel  walked  on  while  Marian  went  up  the  grav- 
eled walk,  expecting  at  each  step  to  meet  with  either 
Frederic  or  Alice. 

She  would  rather  it  should  be  the  latter,  for  in  case 
of  recognition,  she  knew  she  could  bind  the  blind  girl 
to  secrecy  for  a  time,  but  no  one  appeared,  and  about 
the  house  there  was  no  sign  of  life,  save  a  parrot,  which, 
in  its  cage  beneath  a  maple  tree,  screamed  out  wholly 
unintelligible  words.  The  door  was  shut,  and  even  after 
the  driver  had  placed  her  trunks  upon  the  piazza  and 


MARIAN    RAYMOND.  293 

gone,  Marian  stood  there  ringing  the  bell.  The  win- 
dow to  her  right  was  open,  and  she  knew  it  was  the 
window  of  Frederic's  room,  but  he  was  not  sitting  near 
it,  and  after  a  little  she  ventured  to  approach  it  and 
look  in.  It  did  not  seem  to  have  been  occupied  at  all 
that  day,  for  everything  was  arranged  in  perfect  order 
as  if  broom  and  duster  had  recently  done  service  there. 
Its  prim,  neat  appearance  affected  Marian  unpleasant- 
ly, as  if  it  were  the  furerunner  of  some  disappoint- 
ment, and  going  back  to  the  door  she  resolutely  pulled 
the  silver  knob.  The  loud,  sharp  ring  made  her  heart 
beat  violently,  and  when  she  heard  a  heavy  tread,  not 
unlike  a  man's  coming  up  the  basement  stairs,  she 
thought,  "  What  if  it  is  Frederic  himself?  What  shall 
i  say  ?" 

"  It  ib  Frederic,"  she  continued,  as  the  step  came 
nearer,  and  she  was  wishing  she  could  run  away  and 
hide,  when  the  door  was  opened  by  Mrs.  Russell,  her 
feet  encased  in  a  pair  of  Mr.  Raymond's  cast-off  shoes, 
which  accounted  for  her  heavy  tread,  and  herself  look- 
ing a  little  crest-fallen  at  the  sight  of  her  visitor,  whom 
she  recognized  at  once. 

"  Miss  Grey,  I  b'lieve  ?"  she  said,  dropping  a  low 
curtesy.  "  We  wan't  expectin'  you  till  to-morrow ; 
but  walk  in,  and  make  yourself  at  home.  You'll  want 
to  go  to  your  room,  I  'spose.  Traveled  all  night,  didn't 
you?  You  look  pale,  and  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  you 
wanted  to  sleep  most  of  the  day.  I  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing  as  your  comiri'  this  inorniu'.  Dear  me, 
what  shall  I  do?" 

This  was  said  in  an  under-tone,  but  it  caught  the  ear 
of  Marian,  who,  now  that  she  had  a  chance  to  speak, 
asked  for  Mr.  Raymond,  timidly,  as  if  fearful  that  with 
his  name  her  sacret  might  slip  out. 

"Bless  you!"  returned  Mrs.  Russell,  "both  of  'em 
went  to  New  York  early  this  morning,  and  won't  be 
home  till  dark,  maybe,  and  that's  why  I  feel  so.  I 
don't  know  how  to  entertain  you  as  they  do,  and  Miss 
Alice  has  been  reckoning  on  giving  you  a  good  im- 


294  MABIAN   EAYMOND. 

pression.  I'm  so  sorry  you've — they've  gone,  I  mean. 
I  wan't  expecting  to  get  any  dinner  to-day,  and  was 
having  such  a  nice  time,  sewin'  on  my  new  dress ;" 
and,  with  the  last,  the  whole  cause  of  the  old  lady's  un- 
easiness was  divulged. 

In  the  absence  of  Frederic  and  Alice,  she  had  count- 
ed upon  a  day  of  leisure,  which  Marian's  arrival  had 
seriously  interrupted. 

"  I  beg  you  not  to  trouble  yourself  for  me,"  baid 
Marian,  who  readily  understood  the  matter.  "  I  never 
care  for  a  regular  dinner  :  indeed,  I  may  not  be  hungry 
at  all." 

The  old  lady's  face  brightened  perceptibly,  and  she 
replied : 

k'  Oh,  I  don't  mind  a  cup  of  tea,  and  the  like  o'  that ; 
but  to  brile  or  stew  this  hot  day  ain't  so  pleasant,  when 
a  person  is  fleshy,  as  I  am.  I'll  get  you  something, 
though  ;  and  now  you  go  up  stairs  to  your  room,  the 
one  at  the  right  hand,  with  the  white  furniture,  and 
the  silver  jigger,  that  let's  the  water  into  that  marble 
dish.  We  live  in  style,  I  tell  you  ;  and  Mr.  Raymond 
is  a  gentleman,  if  there  ever  was  one — only  he  wants 
meat  three  times  a  day,  just  as  he  has  in  Kentucky. 
Thinks,  I  'spose,  it  don't  hurt  me  any  more  to  sweat  over 
the  fire,  than  it  does  that  Dinah.  Alice  talks  so  much 
about.  Yes,  that's  the  door — right  there ;"  and  Mrs, 
Russell  went  back  to  the  making  of  her  dress,  while 
Marian  sought  her  chamber,  feeling  rather  disappoint- 
ed at  the  absence  of  both  Frederic  and  Alice,  whose 
object  in  visiting  New  York,  that  day,  will  be  ex- 
plained in  the  succeeding  chapter,  and  will  necessarily 
take  us  backward  for  a  little  in  our  story. 


CHAPTER 


'•  FKEDERIC,"  said  Alice,  about  six  weeks  before  Ma- 
rian's arrival  at  Riverside,  "who  hired  that  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton  to  take  care  of  you  when  you  were  sick  at  the 
hotel?" 

"  The  proprietor,  I  suppose,"  returned  Frederic. 

Alice  continued  : 

"  But  who  told  him  of  her  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Frederic.  "  She  was  from  the 
country,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  returned  Alice  ;  "  but  some  person  must 
have  recommended  her,  and  if  you  can  ascertain  who 
that  person  was,  you  may  find  Mrs.  Merton,  and  learn 
something  of  Marian." 

"I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  that  before,"  said 
Frederic,  adding,  "  that  if  Alice  had  her  sight  he  be- 
lieved she  would  have  discovered  Marian  ere  this." 

"I  know  I  should,"  was  her  answer;  and  after  a 
little  further  conversation,  it  was  decided  that  Frederic 
should  go  to  New  York,  and  learn,  if  possible,  who 
iirst  suggested  MIS.  Merton  as  a  nurse. 

This  was  not  so  easy  a  matter  as  he  had  imagined  it 
to  be,  for  though  Frederic  himself  was  well  remem- 
bered at  the  hotel,  where  he  was  now  a  frequent  guest, 
scarcely  any  one  could  recall  Mrs.  Merton  distinctly, 
and  no  one  seemed  to  know  how  she  came  there,  until 
a  servant,  who  had  been  in  the  house  a  long  time, 
spoke  of  Martha  Gibbs,  and  then  the  proprietor  sud- 


296      FEEDERIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MAKIAN's  OLD  HOME. 

denly  remembered  that  she  had  recommended  Mrs. 
Merton  as  being  a  friend  of  hers. 

"Bat  who  is  Martha  Gibbs,  and  where  is  she  now?" 
Frederic  asked  ;  and  the  servant  replied  that 

"  Her  home  used  to  be  in  Woodstock,  Conn. ;"  and 
with  this  item  "of  information  Frederic  wrote  to  her 
friends,  inquiring  where  she  was. 

To  tin's  letter  there  came  ere  long  an  answer,  saying 

that  Mrs.  John  Jennings  lived  in ,  a  small  town 

in  the  interior  of  Iowa.  Accordingly  the  next  mail 
westward  from  Yonkers  carried  a  letter  to  said  Mrs. 
Jennings,  asking  where  the  woman  lived  who  had 
nursed  Mr.  Raymond  through  that  dangerous  fever. 
This  being  done,  Frederic  and  Alice  waited  impa- 
tiently for  a  reply,  which  was  long  in  coming,  for  Mr. 
Jennings'  log  tenement  was  several  miles  from  the 
post-office,  where  he  seldom  called,  and  it  was  more 
than  a  week  ere  the  letter  reached  him.  Even  then  it 
found  him  so  engrossed  in  the  arrival  of  his  first-born 
son  and  heir,  that  for  two  or  three  days  longer  it  lay 
unopened  in  the  clock-case,  ere  he  thought  to  look  at 
it. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  means,  I'm  sure,"  he  said, 
taking  it  to  his  wife,  who,  having  never  heard  of  the 
death  of  her  old  friend,  replied,  "  Why,  he  wants  to 
know  where  Mrs.  Burt  lives.  Just  write  on  a  piece  of 

paper  :  '  East street,  No.  — ,  third  story  ;  turn  to 

your  right ;  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.'  I  wonder 
if  he's  never  been  there  yet?" 

John  was  not  an  elaborate  correspondent,  and  he 
simply  wrote  down  his  better  half's  direction,  saying 
nothing  whatever  of  Mrs.  Burt  herself,  and  thus  con- 
veying to  Frederic  no  idea  that  Merton  was  not  the 
real  name. 

"  A  letter  from  Iowa,"  said  Frederic  to  Alice,  as  he 
came  in  from  the  office,  on  the  very  night  when  Ma- 
rian was  walking  slowly  past  what  was  once  her  home. 
"  I  have  the  street  and  number,  and  to-morrow  I  am 
going  there." 


FREDEKIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MAKIAN's  OLD  HOME.      297 

"  And  I  am  going,  too,"  cried  Alice.  Won't  Ma- 
rian be  surprised  to  see  us  both.  I  hope  she'll  C"ine 
to  the  door  herself;  and  Frederic,  if  she  does,  you'll 
kiss  her,  won't  you,  and  act  like  you  was  glad,  for  if 
you  don't,  maybe  she  won't  come  back  with  us.'v 

"  I  will  do  right,"  answered  Frederic,  adding  in  a 
low  tone,  "  Perhaps  she  will  not  be  there." 

"Yes,  she  will,"  was  Alice's  positive  reply,  "or  if 
she's  not,  somebody  can  tell  us  where  she  is.  Only  to 
think,  we  shall  see  her  to-morrow.  I  do  wish  it  would 
hurry,  and  I'm  glad  Miss  Grey  is  not  coming  until  the 
clay  after.  It  will  be  so  nice  to  have  them  both  here. 
Do  you  suppose  they'll  like  each  other,  Marian  and 
Miss  Grey  I" 

"  I  dare  say  they  will,"  returned  Frederic,  smiling 
at  the  little  girl's  enthusiasm,  and  hoping  she  might 
not  be  disappointed. 

Anon,  a  shadow  clouded  Alice's  face,  and  observ- 
ing it,  Frederic  passed  his  hand  over  her  hair,  saying, 
"  What  is  ir,  birdie  ?" 

"  Frederic,"  said  Alice,  creeping  closely  to  the  side 
of  the  young  man,  "  Isn't  Miss  Grey  very  beautiful  ?" 

"  Mr.  Gordon  and  Ben  say  so,"  returned  Frederic, 
and  Alice  continued : 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  but  you  loved  Isabel  the 
best  because  she  was  the  handsomest,  and  now  you 
won't  love  Miss  Grey  better  than  Marian,  will  you,  and 
you'll  be  Marian's  husband  right  off,  won't  you  ?" 

"When  Marian  comes  here,  it  will  be  as  my  wife," 
said  Frederic,  and  with  this  answer  Alice  was  satis- 
lied. 

"  I  wish  it  would  grow  dark  faster,"  she  said,  for  she 
could  tell  when  it  was  night ;  and  Frederic,  while  list- 
ening to  the  many  different  ways  she  conjured  up  for 
them  to  meet  Murian,  became  almost  as  impatient  aa 
herself  for  the  morrow,  when  his  renewed  hopes  might, 
perhaps,  be  realized. 

The  breakfast  next  morning  was  hurried  through,  for 
neither  Alice  nor  Frederic  could  eat,  and  Mrs.  Russell, 


298      FREDERIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIANA  OLD  HOME. 

when  she  saw  how  much  was  left  untouched,  conirrat- 
nlated  herself  upon  its  answering  for  the  hired  raan'a 
dinner,  and  thus  giving  her  a  nice  long  time  for  sew- 
ing. 

"  It  isn't  a  bit  likely  Miss  Grey  will  come  to-day," 
said  Alice,  as  she  followed  Frederic  to  the  carriage; 
and,  confident  of  this,  they  gave  Miss  Grey  no  further 
thought,  but  went  on  their  way  in  search  of  Marian. 
"When  they  reached  New  York,  Frederic,  who  had 
some  business  to  transact,  left  Alice  in  the  parlor  at 
the  Astor,  where  she  sat  with  her  face  to  the  window, 
just  as  though  she  could  see  the  passers-by;  and,  as 
she  sat  there,  a  party  who  were  leaving  glanced  has- 
tily in,  all  seeing  the  little  figure  by  the  window,  and 
one  thinking  to  herself,  "  She  wears  her  hair  combed 
back,  as  Alice  used  to  do !" 

Then  the  group  passed  on,  while  over  the  face  of  the 
blind  girl  there  flitted  for  an  instant  a  wondering,  be- 
wildering expression,  for  her  quick  ear  had  caught  the 
Bound  of  a  voice  which,  it  seemed  to  her,  she  had  heard 
before — not  there — not  in  New  York*— but  far  away, 
at  Redstone  Hall.  What  was  it  ?  "Who  was  it  ?  She 
bent  her  head  to  listen,  hoping  to  hear  it  again,  but  it 
came  no  more,  for  Marian  Grey  had  left  the  house, 
and  was  passing  up  Broadway.  It  was  not  long  ere 
Frederic  returned,  sind,  taking  .\  lice's  hand,  he  led  her 
into  the  street,  and  entered  a  Third  avenue  car. 

"  We  are  on  the  right  track,  I  think,"  he  said  ;  "for 
it  was  this  way  she  went  with  the  man  described  by 
Sarah  Green." 

Alice  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and,  leaning  against 
Frederic,  rather  enjoyed  the  pleasant  motion  of  the 
car,  although  she  wished  it  would  go  faster. 

"  Won't  we  ever  get  there  ?"  she  asked,  as  they  plod- 
ded slowly  on,  stopping  often  to  take  in  a  passenger, 
or  set  one  down. 

"  Yes,  by  and  by,"  said  Frederic,  encouragingly. 
"  I  am  not  quite  certain  of  the  street,  myself,  but  I 
shall  know  it  when  I  see  the  name,  of  course ;"  and  he 


FREDERIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MAKIAN5S  OLD  HOME.       299 

looked  anxiously  out  as  they  passed  along.  "  Here  it 
is!"  lie  cried,  at  last;  and,  seizing  Alice's  arm,  he 
rather  dragged  than  led  her  from  the  car,  and  out  upon 
the  crossing.  "  Why,"  he  exclaimed,  gazing  eagerly 
around  him,  "  I  have  been  here  before — down  this 
very  street ;"  and  his  eye  wandered  involuntarily  in 
the  direction  of  the  window  where  once  the  white - 
fringed  curtain  hung. 

It  was  gone  now,  as  was  the  rose  geranium.  The 
kitten,  too,  was  gone,  and  the  small  hand  resting  on 
it;  while  in  their  place  appeared  the  heads  of  t\vo  or 
three  dirty  children,  looking  across  the  way,  and  mak- 
ing wr}r  faces  at  similar  dirty  children  in  the  window 
opposite.  Frederic  saw  all  this,  and  it  affected  him 
unpleasantly,  causing  him  to  feel  as  if  he  had  parted 
from  some  old  friend.  But  no  ;  where  was  that?  It 
must  be  in  this  locality  ;  and  he  wondered  how  one 
accustomed  to  the  luxuries  of  Redstone  Hall  could 
live  in  this  place  so  long. 

"  I've  found  it!"  he  said,  as  his  eye  caught  the  num- 
ber ;  and  now,  that  he  believed  himself  near  to  what 
he  had  sought  so  long,  he  was  more  impatient  than 
Alice  herself. 

He  could  not  wait  for  her  uncertain  footsteps,  and 
pale  with  excitement,  he  caught  ner  in  his  arms  and 
hurried  up  the  narrow  stairs,  wliicli  many 'a  time  had 
creaked  to  Marian's  tread.  The  third  story  was  reached 
at  last,  and  he  stood  panting  by  the  door,  where  Mr. 
Jennings  had  said  that  he  must  stop.  It  was  open,  and 
the  greasy,  uncarpeted  floor,  of  \rhich  he  caught  a 
glimpse,  looked  cheerless  and  uninviting,  but  it  did 
not  keep  him  back  a  moment,  and  he  advanced  into 
the  room,  which,  by  the  three  heads  at  the  window, 
he  knew  was  the  same  where  the  white  curtain  once 
hud  hung,  and  where  now  the  glaring  August  sunlight 
came  pouring  in,  unbroken  and  unsubdued. 

At  the  siglit  of  a  stranger  one  of  the  heads  turned 
toward  him  and  a  little  voice  said  : 


cOO      FREDERIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIAN'S  OLD  HOME. 

"  Ma's  out  washin',  she  is,  and  won't  be  home  till 
night." 

There  was  a  cold,  heavy  feeling  of  disappointment 
settling  round  Frederic's  heart,  for  nothing  there  seemed 
at  ull  like  what  he  remembered  of  the  neat,  tidy  Mrs. 
Merton,  but  he  nerved  himself  to  ask  : 

"  What  is  your  mother's  namg  ?" 

"  Bunce,  and  my  pa  is  in  the  Tombs,"  was  the 
reply. 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  here  ?"  was  the  next 
question,  asked  with  a  colder,  heavier  heart. 

"  Next  Christinas  a  year,"  said  the  little  girl,  and 
catching  Frederic's  arm,  Alice  whispered, 

"  Do  let's  £O  out  into  t^e  open  air." 

But  Frederic  did  not  move — there  was  a  spell  upon 
him,  and  for  several  moments  it  kept  him  there  in  the 
very  room  where  Marian  had  wept  so  many  tears  for 
him,  and  where,  in  her  desolation,  she  had  asked  that 
she  might  die  when  the  greatest  sorrow  she  had  ever 
known  came  upon  her — the  sorrow  brought  by  Isabel's 
cruel  letter.  There  close  to  where  he  stood  was  the 
door  of  the  little  room  where  for  weeks  and  months 
she  had  lain,  tossing  in  her  feverish  pain,  while  over 
her  Ben  Burt  kept  his  tireless  watch,  nor  asked  for 
greater  reward  than  to  know  that  she  would  live.  And 
was  there  nothing  to  tell  him  of  all  this — nothing  to 
whisper  that  the  one  he  sought  had  been  there  once, 
but  was  waiting  for  him  now  in  his  own  home  !  No, 
there  was  nothing  but  dark,  cheerless  poverty  staring 
him  in  the  face,  and  with  a  sigh  he  turned  away,  and 
knocking  at  other  doors,  asked  for  the  former  occu- 
pants of  those  front  rooms.  Nearly  all  the  present 
tenants  had  moved  there  since  Mrs.  Burt's  death,  and 
none  knew  aught  of  her  save  one  rather  decent-looking 
woman,  who  said  "she  remembered  the  folks  well, 
though  they  held  their  heads  above  the  likes  of  her. 
She'd  ceen  them  cumin'  in  and  out  and  had  peeked 
into  their  room,  so  she  knew  they  was  well  to  do." 

"  Was  their  name  Merton  ?  and  did  a  young  girl 


FEEDKRIO  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIANA  OLD  HOME.      301 

live  with,  them?"  asked  Frederic;  and  the  woman 
replied : 

"  Merton  sounds  some  like  it.  though  I'd  sooner  say 
'twas  Burton,  or  something  like  that.  I  never  even 
BO  much  as  passed  the  time  of  day  with  'em,  for  I  tell 
you  they  felt  above  me;  but  the  girl  was  a  jewel — so 
trim  and  genteel  like." 

"  That  was  Marian,"  whispered  Alice ;  and  Fred- 
eric continued  : 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?" 

"  Bless  you,"  returned  the  woman.  "  One  on  'ern 
is  in  Heaven,  and  the  Lord  only  knows  where  t'other 
one  went  to." 

Alice's  hand,  which  lay  in  Frederic's,  was  clutched 
with  a  painful  grasp  ;  and  the  perspiration  gathered 
about  the  young  man's  white  lips  as  he  stammered 
out : 

"  Which  one  is  dead?  Not  the  girl?  You  dare 
not  tell  me  that  ?" 

"  I  dare  if  it  was  so,"  returned  the  woman  ;  "  but 
'twant ;  'twas  the  old  one — the  one  I  took  to  be  the 
mother;  though  I  have  heard  a  story  about  the  girl's 
comin'  here  long  time  ago,  before  1  moved  here.  I 
was  away  when  the  woman  died,  and  when  1  got  back 
the  rooms  was  empty,  and  the  boy  and  girl  was  gone ; 
nobody  knows  where  ;  and  I  haint  seen  em  since." 

Frederic  was  too  much  interested  in  Marian  to  hear 
anything  else,  and  he  paid  no  attention  to  her  mention 
of  a  boy.  Marian  was  all  he  wished  to  find,  but  it  was 
iii  vain  that  he  questioned  and  cross-questioned  the 
woman.  She  had  given  all  the  information  she  could  ; 
and  with  an  increased  feeling  of  disappointment  he 
left  her,  glancing  once  more  into  the  room  where  he 
was  sure  Marian  had  lived.  Alice,  too,  was  willing  to 
stop  there  now ;  and  when  Frederic  told  her  of  the 
geranium  and  the  kitten  he  had  once  seen  in  the  win- 
flow,  a  smile  mingled  with  her  tears,  and  she  wished 
she  had  them  now,  especially  the  kitten !  She  did  not 
know  that  the  matronly-looking  cat,  which,  behind  the 


302      FEEDERIO  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIAN'S  OLD  HOME. 

broken  stove,  was  purring  sleepily,  was  the  same  ]\lai 
tese  kitten  Marian  had  fondled  so  often.  At  the  time 
of  leaving  she  had  given  it  to  an  acquaintance  near 
by,  but  pussy  preferred  her  old  haunts,  and  returning 
to  them,  persisted  in  remaining  there  until  the  arrival 
of  the  new  comers,  who  took  her  in,  and  she  now  daily 
shared  the  meagre  fare  of  the  three  children  by  the 
window.  Intuitively,  as  it  were,  she  felt  that  Alice 
was  a  lover  of  her  race,  and  she  came  towards  her, 
purring  loudly,  and  rubbing  against  her  side. 

"  Lands  sake,"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "  Here's  the 
very  cat  the  young  girl  used  to  tend  so  much.  I  know 
it  by  the  white  spot  between  its  eyes.  I  found  it  mew- 
ing and  making  an  awful  noise  by  the  door  when  I 
came  back ;  and  though  I  ain't  none  of  your  cat 
women,  I  flung  it  a  bone  or  two  till  them  folks  came, 
and  the  children  kept  it  to  torment,  I  'spect,  just  as 
young  ones  will.  I  see  one  of  'em  with  a  string  round 
its  neck  t'other  day  a  chokin'  it  most  to  death." 

"  Oh,  Frederic,"  and  Alice's  face  expressed  what  she 
wished  to  say,  while  she  caught  up  the  animal  in  her 
arms. 

Frederic  understood  her,  and  speaking  to  the  oldest 
of  the  children,  he  said,  "Will  you  give  me  your 
cat  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  the  three  set  up  at  once,  and  Alice  whis- 
pered, "  Buy  her,  Frederic,  won't  you  ?" 

"Will  you  let  me  have  her  for  fifty  cents?"  he 
asked,  showing  the  silver  coin. 

"  No,  no,"  and  the  youngest  began  to  cry. 

"  Give  more,"  said  Alice,  and  Frederic  continued, 
"  Fifty  cents  a  piece,  then.  You  can  buy  a  great  many 
cakes  and  crackers  with  it" — 

"  And  candy,"  suggested  Alice. 

"The  youngest  began  to  show  signs  of  relenting,  as 
did  the  second,  but  the  third  persisted  in  saying  "No." 

"  Offer  her  more,"  was  whispered  in  a  low  voice, 
and  glancing  around  the  poorly  furnished  room,  Fred- 
eric took  out  his  purse  and  said,  "  You  shall  have  a 


FBEDEKIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIAN 's  OLD  HOME.      303 

dollar  a  piece,  but  part  of  it  must  be  saved  for  yom 
mother, — besides  that,  this  little  girl  is  blind,"  and  he 
laid  his  hand  on  Alice's  head. 

This  last  argument  would  have  been  sufficient  with- 
out the  dollar,  for  it  touched  a  chord  of  pity  in  the 
heart  of  that  child  of  poverty,  and  coming  closer  to 
Alice  she  looked  at  her  curiously,  saying,  "Can't  you 
see  a  bit  more'n  I  can  with  my  eyes  shut?"  and  she 
closed  her  own  by  way  of  experimenting. 

"Not  a  bit,"  returned  Alice,  "but  I  love  kitty  just 
the  same,  because  she  used  to  belong  to  a  dear  friend 
of  mine.  May  I  have  her?" 

"  Ye-es,"  came  half  reluctantly  from  the  lips  of  the 
child,  as  she  extended  her  hand  for  the  money. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Alice  when  the)7  were  at  a 
safe  distance  from  the  house.  "  I  was  afraid  they'd 
take  it  back,"  and  she  held  fast  to  the  kitten,  which 
made  no  effort  to  escape,  but  lay  in  her  arms,  singing 
occasionally  as  if  well  pleased  with  the  exchange. 

This,  however,  Frederic  knew  would  not  continue 
until  they  reached  home,  and  stepping  into  a  shop 
which  they  were  passing,  he  bought  a  covered  basket, 
in  which  the  cat  was  placed  and  the  lid  secured,  a  pro- 
ceeding not  altogether  satisfactory  to  the  prisoner. 
Alice,  too,  was  equally  distressed,  and  when  she  learned 
that  Frederic  could  not  go  home  until  night,  she  in- 
sisted upon  his  getting  her  a  room  at  the  Asitor,  where 
she  could  let  her  treasure  out  without  fear  of  its  escap- 
ing. Frederic  complied  with  her  request,  and  in  her 
delight  with  her  new  pet,  she  half  forgot  how  disap- 
pointed she  had  been  in  the  result  of  their  visit.  But 
not  so  with  Frederic.  He  felt  it  keenly,  for  never  had 
his  hopes  of  finding  Marian  been  raised  to  a  higher 
pitch  than  that"  morning,  and  even  now  he  could  not 
give  it  up.  Leaving  Alice  at  the  hotel  he  went  back 
again  to  the  street  and  made  the  most  minute  inquiries, 
but  all  to  no  purpose.  He  could  not  obtain  the  least 
clue  to  her,  and  he  retraced  his  steps  with  a  feeling 


30i      FBEDEBIO  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIANAS  OLD  HOME. 

that  she  was  as  really  lost  to  him  as  if  Sarah  Green'a 
letter  had  been  true  and  Marian  resting  in  her  grave. 

"  Why  had  that  letter  been  written?"  he  asked  him- 
self again  and  again. 

Somebody  knew  of  Marian,  and  there  was  a  mystery 
connected  with  it — a  mystery  of  wrong  it  might  me. 
Perhaps  she  could  not  come  back,  even  though  she 
wanted  to,  and  his  pulses  quickened  with  painful  rap- 
idity as  he  thought  of  all  the  imaginary  terrors  which 
might  surround  the  lost  one.  It  was  indeed  a  sad  re- 
flection, and  his  spirits  were  unusually  depressed, 
when  just  before  sunset  he  took  Alice  by  one  hand, 
the  basket  in  the  other,  and  started  for  home. 

"  I  didn't  think  we  should  come  back  alone,"  said 
Alice,  when  at  last  they  reached  the  depot  at  Yonkers, 
and  she  was  lifted  into  the  carriage  waiting  for  them. 
"  It's  dreadful  we  couldn't  find  her,  but  I  am  so  glad 
we've  got  the  cat ;"  and  she  guarded  the  basket  cure- 
fully,  as  if  it  had  contained  the  diamonds  of  India. 

Frederic  did  not  care  to  talk,  and  folding  his  arms, 
lie  leaned  moodily  back  in  his  carriage,  evincing  no 
interest  in  anything  until  as  they  drew  near  home,  the 
driver  said  to  Alice: 

"  Guess  who's  come  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — Dinah,  may  be,"  was  Alice's 
reply,  and  then  Frederic  smiled  at  the  preposterous 
idea. 

"  No  ;  guess  again,"  said  the  driver.  "  Somebody 
as  handsome  as  a  doll." 

"  Miss  Grey  1"  cried  Alice,  almost  upsetting  her 
basket  in  her  delight. 

Eagerly  she  questioned  John,  and  then  replied, 
"I'm  so  glad,  though  I  was  going  to  fix  her  room  so 
nice  to-morrow — but  no  matter,  it's  always  pleasant 
up  there.  How  lonesome  she  must  have  been  all 
day  with  nothing  but  the  garden,  the  books,  and  the 
piano." 

"  She  has  been  homesick,"  I  guess,"  said  John,  "  for 


FKEDERIC  AND  ALICE  VISIT  MARIAN'S  OLD  HOME.      305 

I  seen  her  cryin',  I  thought,  out  under  a  tree  in  the 
garden." 

"  Poor  thing !"  sighed  Alice.  "  She  won't  be  home* 
sick  any  more  when  we  get  there ;  will  she,  Fred- 
eric ?  I  wonder  if  she  likes  cats!"  And  as  by  thia 
time  they  had  stopped  at  their  own  gate,  the  little 
girl  went  running  up  the  walk,  shaking  the  basket 
prodigiously,  and  inciting  its  contents  to  such  violent 
struggles  that  in  the  hall  the  lid  came  off,  and  bound- 
ing from  its  confinement,  the  cat  ran  into  the  parlor, 
wliere,  trembling  with  fright,  it  crouched  as'for  protec- 
tion, at  the  feet  of  Marian  Grey. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

THE    MEETING. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  Alice's  fears  the  day  had  not  been 
»  lon<>;  one  to  Marian,  who  had  been  so  occupied  in  un- 
packing her  trunks  and  in  going  over  the  house  and 
grounds,  as  scarcely  to  heed  the  lapse  of  time,  and  she 
was  surprised  when,  about  sunset,  she  saw  John  drive 
from  the  yard,  and  knew  he  was  going  for  his  master. 
Not  till  then  did  she  fully  realize  her  position,  and  she 
sought  her  chamber  to  compose  herself,  for  the  dreaded 
trial,  which  each  moment  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

"  Will  Frederic  know  me  ?"  she  asked  herself  a  dozen 
times,  and  as  often  answered  no — but  Alice,  ah,  Alice, 
there  was  danger  to  be  apprehended  from  her,  and 
Marian  felt  that  she  would  far  rather  meet  the  scrutin- 
izing gaze  of  Frederic  Raymond's  eyes  than  submit 
herself  to  the  touch  of  the  blind  girl's  fingers,  or  trust 
her  voice  to  the  blind  girl's  ear. 

That  might  not  have  changed.  She  could  not  tell 
if  it  had,  though  she  thought  it  very  probable,  for  six 
years  was  a  long,  long  time,  and  it  was  nearly  that 
since  she  left  Redstone  Hall.  She  could  not  sustain  a 
feigned  voice,  she  knew,  and  there  was  no  alternative 
save  to  wait  the  trial  and  abide  the  result  of  a  recog- 
nition. She  felt  a  pardonable  pride  in  wishing  to 
make  a  g~6od  impression  upon  Frederic,  for  he  could 
see,  and  she  spent  a  much  longer  time  at  her  toilet 
than  usual.  Black  was  very  becoming  to  her  daz- 
zling complexion,  and  the  thin  tissue  she  wore  iitted  her 
admirably,  showing  just  enough  of  her  neck,  while  the 


THE    MEETING.  307 

wide,  loose  sleeves  displayed  the  whole  of  her  well- 
shaped  arm,  which,  from  contrast,  looked  white  and 
smooth  as  ivory.  Hitherto  she  had  curled  her  entire 
hair,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  do  so  now,  and  she  con- 
fined a  part  of  it  with  a  comb,  while  the  remainder 
of  it  was  suffered  to  curl  as  usual  about  her  face  and 
behind  her  ears.  This  changed  her  looks  somewhat, 
but  was  still  becoming,  and  as  she  saw  in  the  mirror 
the  reflection  of  her  sweet  young  face  and  deep  blue 
eyes  there  came  a  brighter  glow  to  her  cheek,  for  she 
knew  that  the  cherished  wish  of  her  early  girlhood  had 
been  fulfilled,  and  that  Ben  Burt  was  right  when  he 
called  her  beautiful. 

The  gas  was  lighted  when  she  entered  the  parlor  be 
low,  and  turning  it  down  a  little,  she  took  a  book  and 
seated  herself  somewhat  in  the  shade.  But  the  vol- 
ume might  as  well  have  been  wrong  side  up  for  any 
idea  its  contents  conveyed  to  her,  so  absorbed  was  she 
in  what  was  fast  approaching,  for  she  had  heard  the 
carriage  stop  at  the  gate,  and  felt  the  cold  moisture 
starting  out  beneath  her  hair  and  on  her  hands. 

u  I  will  be  calm,"  she  said,  and  with  one  tremen- 
dous eifort  of  the  will  she  quieted  the  violent  throb- 
bings  of  her  heart,  and  leaning  on  her  elbow,  pretend* 
ed  to  be  reading,  though  not  a  sound  escaped  her  ear. 
She  heard  the  little  feet  come  running  up  the  walk, 
and  the  heavy,  manly  tread  following  in  the  rear. 

She  heard  the  struggle  in  the  hall  between  Alice 
and  the  cat,  and  when  the  latter  bounded  into  the  room 
and  crouched  jdown  at  her  feet,  she  thought  there  was 
something  familiar  in  that  spot  between  the  eyes.  But 
it  could  not  be,  she  said,  though  Alice's  exclamation  of 
"  Do,  Frederic,  shut  the  door,  so  she  cannot  get  away," 
seemed  to  intimate  that  pussy  was  a  stranger  there. 
Stooping  down,  she  passed  her  hand  caressingly  over 
the  animal's  back,  whispering,  in  a  low  tone,  "Spotty, 
darling,  is  it  you?" 

Won  by  her  voice,  the  cat  sprang  up  on  Marian's 
lap  j  uat  as  Frederic  glanced  hastily  in. 


308  TOE    MEETING. 

"  Your  pet  is  safe."  he  said  to  Alice,  whom  he  fol- 
lowed to  .the  sitting  room,  waiting  there  a  moment,  and 
then  starting  to  meet  Miss  Grey. 

She  knew  he  was  coming,  counting  every  step,  and 
without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  book  she  pretended 
to  be  reading,  knew  just  when  he  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  door.  Removing  her  hand  from  her  head,  where 
it  had  been  resting,  she  gently  pushed  the  cat  from  her 
lap,  and  half  rising  to  her  feet,  waited  for  the  first 
words  of  greeting. 

"  Miss  Grey,  I  believe  ;"  and  bowing  low,  Frederic 
Raymond,  advanced  towards  Marian,  who  now  stood 
up,  so  that  the  blaze  of  the  chandelier  fell  full  upon 
her,  revealing  at  once  her  face  and  form. 

Had  her  very  life  depended  upon  it  she  could  not 
have  spoken  then,  for  the  stormy  emotions  the  name 
"  Miss  Grey  "  called  up,  mastered  her  speech  entirely. 
She  knew  he  would  thus  address  her,  but  it  grated 
harshly  on  her  ear  to  hear  him  call  her  so,  and  her 
heart  yearned  for  the  familiar  name  of  Marian,  though 
she  had  no  reason  to  expect  it  from  him. 

"You  are  welcome  to  Riverside,"  he  continued ; 
"  and  I  regret  that  your  first  day  here  should  have 
been  so  lonely." 

This  gave  her  a  little  time,  and  conquering  her 
weakness  she  extended  her  hand  to  take  the  one  he 
offered.  Hers  was  cold  and  clammy,  and  trembled 
like  an  imprisoned  bird,  as  it  lay  in  his  broad,  warm 
palrn.  For  an  instant  he  held  it  there,  and  gazed 
down  into  her  sweet,  childish  face,  which  did  not  look 
wholly  unfamiliar  to  him,  while  she  herself  seemed 
more  like  a  friend  than  a  total  stranger.  The  tie  be- 
tween them,  which  naught  but  death  could  sever,  and 
which  was  bound  so  closely  around  Marian's  heart, 
brought  to  his  own  an  answering  throb,  and  when  at 
last  she  spoke,  assuring  him  that  she  had  not  been 
lonely  in  the  least,  he  started,  for  there  was  something 
in  the  tone  which  moved  him  as  a  stranger  oft  ia 
moved,  when  hearing  in  the  calm,  still  night  the  air 


THE    MEETING.  309 

of  "  Home.  Sweet  Home."  It  carried  him  back  to 
Redstone  Hall,  years  and  years  ago,  when  in  the  moon- 
light lie  had  played  with  his  dusky  companions  upon 
the  river  brink.  But  Marian  Lindsey  had  m>  portion 
of  his  thoughts  at  that  first  interview  with  Marian 
Grey,  who  ventured  at  last  to  look  into  his  face  just  as 
he  was  looking  into  hers.  Oh,  how  much  like  the 
Frederic  of  old  he  was,  save  that  in  his  mature  man- 
hood he  was  liner,  nobler  looking,  while  the  proud  fire 
of  his  eye  had  given  place  to  a  milder,  softer  expres- 
sion, and  she  felt  intuitively  that  he  was  far  more  wor- 
thy of  her  love  than  when  she  knew  him  before. 

Motioning  her  to  a  chair,  he,  too,  sat  down  at  a  lit- 
tle distance  and  conversed  with  her  pleasantly,  as 
friend  converses  with  friend,  asking  about  her  jour- 
ney, making  inquiries  after  Mrs.  Sheldon's  family,  and 
experiencing  a  most  unaccounfable  sensation  when  he 
saw  how  she  blushed  at  the  mention  of  William  Gor- 
don !  Ben  was  next  talked  about,  and  Marian  was 
growing  eloquent  in  his  praise,  when  suddenly  a  sight 
met  her  view  which  pretrified  her  powers  of  speech  and 
sent  the  hot  blood  ebbing  backward  from  her  cheek 
and  lip.  In  the  hall  without  and  where  Frederic  could 
not  see  her,  the  blind  girl  stood,  her  hands  clasped  and 
slightly  raised,  her  lips  apart,  her  eyes  rolling,  her  head 
bent  forward,  and  her  ear  turned  toward  the  door, 
whence  came  the  sound  which  had  arrested  her  foot- 
steps and  chained  her  to  the  spot.  She  had  started  for 
the  parlor  and  come  thus  far,  when  she,  too,  caught 
the  tone  which  had  affected  even  Frederic,  and  her 
head  grew  dizzy  with  the  bewildering  sound,  for  to 
her  it  brought  memories  of  Marian.  Had  she  come? 
Was  she  there  with  Frederic  and  Miss  Grey  ?  Eager- 
ly she  waited  to  hear  the  sound  repeated,  wondering 
why  Miss  Grey,  too,  did  not  join  in  the  conversation. 
It  came  again,  the  old  familiar  strain,  though  tuned  to 
a  sadder  note,  for  Marian  had  suffered  much  since  last 
she  talked  with  Alice,  and  it  was  perceptible  even  in 
her  voice.  Tighter  and  tighter  the  small  hands  pressed 


310  THE   MEETING. 

together — lower  and  lower  bent  the  head,  while  a 
shade  of  disappointment  flitted  over  the  face  of  the 
listening  child,  for  this  time  it  did  not  seem  quite  so 
natural  as  at  lirst,  and  she  knew,  too,  that  'twas  Miss 
Grey  who  spoke,  for  her  subject  was  Ben  Butterworth. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Frederic,  observing  that  Miss 
Grey  stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  remark. 

Marian  pointed  toward  the  spot  where  Alice  stood, 
but  ere  Frederic  had  time  to  step  forward,  the  loud 
ring  of  the  bell  started  Alice  from  an  attitude  which, 
had  Frederic  Raymond  seen  it,  would  surely  have  led 
to  a  discovery. 

"The  little  girl,  she  acts  so  singular,"  said  Marian, 
thinking  she  must  make  some  explanation. 

"  She's  blind,  you  know,"  was  answered  in  a  low 
tone,  and  going  toward  the  hall,  Frederic  met  with 
Alice  just  as  a  servant  opened  the  outer  door,  and  a 
stranger  entered,  asking  for  Mr.  Raymond. 

"In  a  moment,"  said  Frederic,  and  leading  Alice  up 
to  Marian,  he  continued,  "Your  teacher,"  and  then 
left  the  two  together. 

For  an  instant  there  was  .perfect  silence,  and  Marian 
knew  the  blind  girl  could  hear  the  beating  of  her 
heart,  while  she  in  turn- watched- the  wonder  and  per- 
plexity written  on  the  speaking  face  turned  upward 
toward  her  own,  the  brown  eyes  riveted  upon  her,  as 
if  for  once  they  had  broken  frpm  their  prison  walla 
and  could  discern,  what  was  before  them. 

Oh!  how  Marian  longed  to  take  the  little,  helpless 
creature  in  her  arms ;  to  hug  her,  to  kiss  her,  to  cry 
over  her,  and  tell  her  of  the  love  which  had  never 
known  one  moment's  abatement  during  the  long  years 
of  their  separation.  But  she  dared  not ;  and  she  sat 
gazing  at  iier  to  see  if  she  had  changed  since  the  night 
when  she  left  her  sleeping  so  quietly  in  their'  dear  old 
room  at  home.  She  was  now  nearly  thirteen,  but  her 
iigure  was  so  slight,  and  her  features  so  child-like,  that 
few  would  have  guessed  her  more  than  nine,  unless 
they  judged  by  her  mature,  womanly  mind.  To  Ma- 


THE   MEETING.  311 

rian  she  seemed  the  same  ;  and  when,  unable  longer 
to  restrain  herself,  she  drew  the  child  toiler,  and,  kiss- 
ing her  forehead,  said  to  her  kindly, 

"  You  are  Alice,  my  pupil,  I  am  sure.  Alice 
what  ?" 

"  Alice  Raymond,"  and  the  sightless  eyes  never 
moved  for  an  instant  from  the  questioner's  face. 

u  Are  you  very  nearly  related  to  Mr.  Raymond  ?" 
asked  Marian  ;  and  Alice  replied  : 

"Second  cousin,  that's  all.  But  he  has  been  more 
than  a  brother  to  me  since — since — " 

The  perplexed,  mystified  look  increased  on  Alice's 
face,  and  her  gaze  grew  more  intense  as  she  contin- 
ued :  "  Since  Marian  went  away." 

There  was  a  moment's  stillness,  and  then  the  hand 
which  hitherto  had  rested  on  Marian's  lap  was  raised 
until  it  reached  the  head,  where  it  lay  lightly,  very 
lightly,  though  to  Mariati  it  seemed  like  the  weight  of 
a  thousand  pounds,  and  she  felt  every  hair  prickle  at 
its  root  when  the  blind  girl  said  to  her : 

"  AIN'T  YOU  MARIAN  <T' 

"  Yes,  Marian  Grey,  -Didn't  you  know  my  first 
name  ?"  was  the  answer,  spoken  so  deliberately  that 
Marian  was  astonished  at  herself. 

There  was  a  wavering  then  in  the  brown  eyes,  a  qui- 
vering of  the  lids,  and  the  great  tears  rolled  down 
Alice's  cheeks,  for  with  this  calm  reply,  uttered  so 
naturally,  the  hope  she  had  scarcely  dared  to  cherish 
passed  away,  and  she  murmured  sadly  : 

"It  cannot  be  her." 

"What  makes  you  cry,  darling?"  asked  Marian, 
choking  back  her  own  tears,  which  were  just  ready  to 
flow,  and  which  did  gush  forth  in  torrents,  when  Alice 
answered : 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  wasn't  blind  to-night !" 

This  surely  was  a  good  cause  for  weeping  and  pres- 
sing the  little  one  to  her  bosom,  Marian  wept  over 
her  passionately  for  a  few  moments ;  then,  drying  hei 
eyes,  she  said : 


312  THE   MEETING. 

"  Why  to-night  more  than  any  other  time  ?" 

"  Because  I  want  so  much  to  know  how  you  look," 
returned  Alice  ;  adding  immediately:  "  May  I  feel  of 
your  face  ?  It's  the  only  way  I  have  of  seeing." 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Marian  ;  and  the  fingers  wan- 
dered slowly,  cautiously,  over  every  feature,  involun- 
tarily caressing  the  fair,  round  cheek,  but  lingering 
longest  on  the  hair — the  beautiful  hair — whose  glossy 
waves  were  perceptible  even  to  the  touch. 

"What  color  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  winding  one  of  the 
curls  around  her  finger. 

"  Some  call  it  auburn,  some  chesnut,  and  some  a 
mixture  of  both,"  was  the  reply,  and  Alice  continued 
her  investigations  by  mentally  comparing  its  length 
with  a  standard  she  had  in  her  own  mind. 

The  two  did  not  agree,  for  the  curls  she  remembered 
were  longer  and  far  more  wiry  than  the  silken  tresses 
of  Miss  Grey. 

"  Ho  ,v  tall  are  you  ?"  she  suddenly  asked,  and  Mari- 
an tried  to  laugh,  although  every  nerve  was  thrilling 
with  fear,  for  she  knew  she  was  passing  through  a  dan- 
gerous test. 

''  Rather  tall,"  she  replied,  standing  up,  "  Yes,  very 
tall,  some  would  say.  Put  up  your  hand  and  see." 

Alice  did  as  she  requested,  and  her  tears  came  faster 
as  she  whispered  mournfully.  "  You're  the  tallest." 

"Did  you  think  we  had  met  before?"  asked  Marian, 
and  then  the  sobs  of  the  child  burst  fonh  unrestrained. 

Burying  her  face  in  Marian's  lap,  she  cried,  "  Yes — • 
no — 1  don't  know  what  I  thought,  only  you  don't  seem 
to  me  like  I  supposed  you  would.  You  make  me 
tremble  so,  and  I  keep  thinking  of  somebody  we  lost 
long  ago.  At  first  your  voice  sounded  so  natural,  that 
I  knew  most  she  was  here,  but  you  aint't  even  like 
her.  You're  taller  and  fatter,  and  handsomer,  I  reckon, 
and  yet  there  is  something  about  you  that  makes  my 
heart  beat  so  fast.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  see  what  it  is. 
What  made  God  make  me  blind?" 

Never  before  had  Marian  heard  a  murmur  from  the 


THE   MEETING.  813 

lips  of  the  unfortunate  child,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
cruel  not  to  whisper  words  of  comfort  in  her  ear.  But 
she  could  not  do  it  yet,  and  so  she  kissed  her  tenderly, 
Baying,  "Did  you  love  this  other  one  so  very  much  ?" 

"  Yes,  very,  very  much,"  was  Alice's  reply,  "  and  it 
hurto  me  so  to  think  we  cannot  find  her.  I  thought 
we  surely  should  to-day,  for  we  went  there,  Frederic 
and  I — went  where  she  used  to  live,  and  she  wasn't 
there.  'Twas  a  dreary  place,  and  Frederic  groaned 
out  loud  to  think  she  ever  lived  there." 

"  Perhaps  it  didn't  look  so  then,"  suggested  Marian, 
who  felt  constrained  to  say  a  word  in  favor  of  her  for- 
mer home. 

u  Oh,  I  know  it  didn't,"  returned  Alice,  "for  Fred- 
eric  has  been  by  there,  though  he  didn't  know  it  then< 
and  he  says  it  looked  real  nice,  with  the  white  curtain 
and  the  bitten  asleep  on  the  window  sill.  It's  a  cat 
now,  and  we  brought  it  home." 

"  Her  cat  ?"  and  Marian  started  eagerly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Alice,  "  Frederic  gave  three  dollars  for 
it,"  and  forgetting  her  late  grief  in  this  new  interest, 
she  to<d  how  they  knew  it  was  Marian's,  and  then  as 
Miss  Grey  expressed  a  wish  to  see  it,  she  started  in 
quest  of  it,  just  as  Frederic  appeared,  telling  them  tea 
was  ready. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  we  keep  Lent  here  all 
the  year  round,"  he  said,  apologetically.  "  I  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Mrs.  Russell  compelled  you  to  fast 
until  our  return." 

'('  It  didn't  matter,"  Marian  relpied  ;  though  she  had 
wondered  a  little  at  the  non-appearance  of  supper,  for 
Mrs.  Russell,  intent  upon  her  dress,  had  no  idea  of 
"  makin'  two  fusses,"  and  she  kept  her  visitor  waiting 
until  the  return  of  Frederic,  saying,  "  the  supper  would 
taste  all  the  better  when  it  did  come." 

Yery  willingly  Marian  followed  Frederic  to  the  di- 
ning-room, where  everything  was  indicative  of  ele- 
gance and  wealth. 

"  Mrs.  Jones  used  to  sit  here  ;  and  I  now  give  the 
14 


814  THE  MEETING. 

place  to  you,"  said  Frederic,  motioning  to  the  seat  by 
the  tea-tray,  and  himself  sitting  down  opposite,  with 
Alice  upon  his  right. 

Marian  became  her  new  position  well,  and  so  Fred- 
eric thought,  as  he  saw  how  gracefully  her  snowy  fin- 
gers handled  the  silver  urn,  and  how  much  at  home 
she  seemed.  There  was  a  strange  fascination  about 
her  as  she  Bat  there  at  the  head  of  his  table,  with  the 
bright  bloom  on  her  cheek,  and  the  dewy  lustre  in 
her  beautiful  blue  eyes,  which  occasionally  wandered 
toward  the  figure  opposite,  but  as  often  fell  beneath 
the  curious  gaze  which  they  encountered.  Frederic 
could  not  forbear  looking  at  her,  even  though  he  saw 
that  it  embarrassed  her — she  was  so  fresh,  so  fair,  so 
modest — while  there  was  about  her  an  indescribable 
something  which  he  could  not  deiine,  for  though  a 
stranger,  as  he  supposed,  she  seemed  near  to  him — so 
near  that  he  ahnost  felt  he  had  a  right  to  pass  liis  arm 
around  her,  and  kiss  the  girlish  lips  which  Will  Gor- 
don had  likened  to  a  rose-bud. 

"  Poor  Will,"  sighed,  "  he  did  lose  a  prize  when  he 
lost  Marian  Grey." 

Involuntarily  his  mind  went  back  to  Redstone  Hall, 
and  to  the  time  when  another  Marian  sat  opposite,  and 
did  for  him  the  office  this  one  was  doing.  The  con- 
trast between  the  two  was  great,  but,  with  a  nobleness 
worthy  of  the  man,  he  thought  "  Marian  Grey  is  far 
more  beautiful,  'tis  true,  but  Marian  Lindsey  was  my 
wife." 

Then  he  remembered  the  day  when  Isabel  first  sat 
at  his  board,  and  he  hud  felt  it  a  sin  to  look  at  her  in 
all  her  queenly  beauty.  He  had  grown  hard  since 
then,  for  he  could  not  think  it  wicked  to  look  at  Mari- 
an Grey,  or  deem  it  a  wrong  to  the  other  one,  and  he 
feasted  his  eyes  upon  her  until  she  arose  from  the  table, 
and  went,  at  Alice's  request,  to  see  the  cat,  which  was 
safely  confined  in  a  candle  box,  "  by  way  of  taming 
her,"  Alice  said. 

"  I  think  there's  no  need  of  that,"  returned  Marian, 


THE   MEETING.  315 

stroking  her  soft  coat.  "  I  am  sure  she  will  not  run 
away.  What  do  you  propose  calling  her  ?" 

"  Marian,  I  reckon,  only  you  might  not  want  her 
named  after  you,  and  it  wouldn't  be,  for  it's  the  other 
one." 

"  I  haven't  the  least  objection,"  said  Miss  Grey, 
laughing,  "  only  Marian  will  sound  oddly.  Suppose 
you  call  it '  Spottie,'  there's  a  cunning  white  spot  be- 
tween its  eyes." 

"  Yes,  Alice,  let  that  be  the  name,"  said  a  voice  be- 
hind them,  and  turning,  Marian  saw  Frederic,  who  had 
all  the  time  been  standing  near  and  watching  them  as 
like  two  children  they  knelt  together  by  the  candle 
box  and  gave  the  cat  its  milk — Marian  and  Alice,  side 
by  side,  jnst  as  they  used  to  be  of  old — just  as  Freder- 
ic had  seen  them  many  a  time. 

The  tableau  was  a  familiar  one,  and  so  he  felt  it  to 
be,  though  he  could  not  divine  the  reason.  The  tall, 
beautiful  girl  before  him  bore  no  resemblance  to  the 
Marian  of  Redstone  Hall,  and  still  nothing  she  did 
seemed  strange  or  new  to  him. 

"  I  certainly  have  dreamed  of  her,"  he  said,  when 
lifting  up  her  head  she  shook  back  from  her  face  the 
clustering  curls,  and  smiled  on  Alice  as  she  used  to  do. 
"I  have  dreamed  of  her  just  as  I  sometimes  dream  of 
places,  and  see  them  afterward  in  waking." 

This  conclusion  was  entirely  satisfactory,  and  she  re- 
turned with  the  girls  to  the  parlor,  while  '"  Spottie 3;  fol- 
lowed after,  hovering  near  to  Marian,  whose  low  spo- 
ken words  and  gentle  caresses  had  reawakened  the  af- 
fection which  had  perhaps  been  dormant  during  the 
last  year. 

u  Will  you  play  for  us,  Miss  Grey  ?"  said  Frederic, 
and  without  a  word  of  apology,  Marian  seated  herself 
at  the  piano,  whose  rich,  mellow  tones  rouseJ  her  en- 
thusiasm at  once,  and  she  played  more  than  usually 
well,  while  Alice  stood  by  listening  eagerly,  and  Fred- 
eric looked  on,  scarce  heeding  the  stirring  notes,  so  in- 


316  THE   MEETING. 

tent  was  lie  npon  the  dimpled  hands  which  swept  the 
keys  so  skillfully. 

On  the  third  finger  there  was  a  little  cornelian  ring, 
the  first  gift  of  Ben,  and  as  he  looked,  he  felt  certain, 
he  had  seen  that  ring  and  those  hands  before.  But 
where?  He  tried  to  recall  the  time  and  the  place. 
Stepping  forward,  he  looked  into  her  face,  but  that 
gave  him  no  clue,  only  the  ring  and  the  hands  were 
familiar.  Suddenly  he  started,  for  he  remembered  the 
when  and  the  where — remembered,  too,  that  Alice, 
when  told  of  the  girl  witli  the  brown  vail,  had  said  to 
him,  "  Wan't  that  our  Marian  ?" 

He  had  accepted  the  suggestion  aa  a  possible  one 
then,  but  he  doubted  it  now,  for  if  that  maiden  were 
Marian  Grey,  it  certainly  could  not  have  been  Marian 
Lindsey.  The  exquisite  music  ceased,  and  ere  Alice 
had  time  for  a  word  of  comment,  he  asked  abruptly : 
"  Miss  Grey,  did  you  ever  ride  in  the  curs  with  me  in 
New  York*" 

The  question  was  a  startling  one,  but  Marian's  face 
was  turned  from  him,  and  he  could  not  see  the  effort 
ishe  made  to  answer  him  calmly. 

"  I  think  it  very  probable.  I  have  been  in  the  cars 
a  great  many  times,  and  with  a  great  many  different 
people." 

"  Yes,  but  one  rainy  night,  more  than  four  years  ago, 
did  I  not  offer  you  a  seat  between  myself  and  the  door? 
You  wore  a  brown  vail,  and  carried  a  willow  basket,  it 
it  were  you.  Something  about  your  appearance  has 
puzzled  me  all  the  evening,  and  I  think  I  must  have 
met  you  there.  It  was  on  the  Third  Avenue  cars." 

Marian  trembled  violently,  but  by  constantly  turn- 
ing the  leaves  of  her  music  book,  she  managed  to  con- 
ceal her  agitation,  and  when  Frederic  ceased  speaking, 
she  answered  in  her  natural  tone,  "  Now  that  you  re- 
call the  circumstances,  I  believe  I  do  remember  some- 
thing about  it,  though  you  do  not  look  as  that  man 
did.  I  imagined  he  had  been  sick,  or  was  in  trouble," 
and  Marian  s  blue  eyes  turned  sideways  to  witness,  if 


THE   MEETING.  317 

possible,  the  effect  of  her  words.  But  she  was  disap- 
pointed, for  she  could  not  see  how  white  Fiederic  was 
for  a  single  instant,  but  she  felt  it  in  his  voice,  as  he 
replied : 

"  You  are  right.  I  had  been  sick,  and  was  in  great 
trouble." 

"  Wasn't  that  when  you  were  looking  for  Marian  ?" 
Alice  asked,  and  again  the  blue  eye  sought  Frederic's 
face,  turning  this  time  so  that  they  could  see  it.  . 

u  Yes,  I  was  hunting  for  Marian,"  was  the  answer^ 
and  the  deep  sigh  which  accompanied  the  worda 
brought  a  thrill  of  joy  to  the  Marian  hunted  for,  and 
she  knew  now,  and  from  his  own  lips,  too,  that  he  had 
sought  for  her,  nay,  that  he  was  looking  for  her  even 
then,  when  in  her  anger  she  censured  him  for  not  re- 
cognizing her. 

Little  by  little  she  was  learning  the  truth  just  as  it 
was  ;  and  when  at  a  late  hour  she  bade  Frederic  good 
night,  and  went  to  her  own  chamber,  her  heart  was  al- 
most too  full  for  utterance,  for  she  felt  that  the  long, 
dark  night  was  over,  and  the  dawn  she  had  waited  for 
so  long  was  breaking  at  last  around  her.  Intuitively, 
Alice,  who  had  been  permitted  to  sit  up  so  long  as  she 
did,  caught  something  of  the  same  spirit.  "  It  was  almost 
as  nice  as  if  Marian  really  were  there,"  she  said ;  and 
she  came  twice  to  kiss  her  governess,  while  on  her  face 
was  a  most  satisfied  expression,  as  she  nestled  among 
her  pillows  and  listened  to  the  footsteps  in  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber  where  Marian  made  her  nightly  toilet. 

"Oh,  I  wish  she'd  let  me  sleep  with  her,"  she  thought. 
"  It  would  be  a  heap  more  like  having  Marian  back." 
And,  when  all  was  still,  she  stepped  upon  the  floor  and 
glided  to  the  bedside  of  Marian,  who  was  not  aware  of 
her  approach  until  a  voice  whispered  in  her  ear : 

"  May  I  stay  here  with  you  ?  I've  been  making  be- 
lieve that  you  was  Marian — our  Marian,  I  mean — and 
1  want  to  sleep  with  you  so  much  just  as  I  used  to  do 
With  her — may  I  ?" 

"  Yes,  darling,"  was  the  answer,  as  Marian  folded 


318  THE   MEETING. 

her  arras  lovingly  around  the  neck  of  the  blind  girl, 
whose  soft,  warm  cheek  was  pressed  against  her  own. 

And  there,  just  as  they  were  used  to  do  in  the  old 
Kentucky  home,  eie  sorrow  had  come  to  either,  they 
lay  side  by  side,Marian  and  Alice,  the  one  dreaming 
sweet  dreams  of  the  Marian  come  back  to  her  again  ; 
and  the  other,  that  to  her  the  gates  of  Paradise  were 
opened,  and  she  saw  the  glory  sliining  through,  just  as 
in  Frederic  Raymond's  eyes  she  had  seen  the  glimmer 
of  the  love-light  which  was  yet  to  overshadow  her  and 
brighten  her  future  pathway. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LIFE    AT    RIVERSIDE. 

IT  was  a  joyful  waking  which  came  to  Marian  riert 
morning,  and  when  fresh  and  glowing  from  her  invig- 
orating bath  she  descended  to  the  piazza  she  was  sur- 
prised at  finding  Frederic  there  before  her,  looking 
haggard  and  pale,  as  if  the  boon  of  sleep  had  been  de- 
nied to  him.  After  Marian  and  Alice  had  bidden  him 
good  night,  lie,  too,  had  retired  to  his  room,  which  was 
directly  under  theirs  ;  and  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  he 
had  listened  to  the  footsteps  above,  readily  distinguish- 
ing one  from  the  other,  and  experiencing  unconsciously  a 
vague,  delicious  feeling  of  comfort  in  knowing  that  the 
long-talked  of  Marian  Grey  had  come  to  him  at  last, 
and  that  she  was  even  more  beautiful  than  he  had  im- 
agined her  to  be  from  "Will  Gordon's  glowing  descrip- 
tion. He  would  keep  her  with  him,  too,  he  said,  until 
the  other  one  was  found,  if  that  should  ever  be  :  and 
then,  as  the  footsteps  and  the  murmur  of  voices  in  the 
chamber  above  him  ceased,  and  all  about  the  house 
was  still,  his  heart  went  out  after  the  other  one,  de- 
manding of  the  solitude  around  to  show  him  where  she 
was — to  lead  him  to  her  so  that  he  could  bring  her 
back  to  the  home  where  each  day  he  was  wanting  her 
more  and  more.  And  the  solitude  thus  questioned  in- 
variably carried  his  thoughts  to  Marian  Grey,  whose 
delicate,  girlish  beauty  had  made  so  strong  an  imprea 
sion  upon  his  mind.  "  How  would  the  two  compare? 


i>20  LIFE   .AT   KIVEESIDE. 

he  asked.     "  Would  not  the  governess  far  outshine  the 
wife  ?     Would  not  the  contrast  be  a  painful  one?" 

"No,  no!"  he  said;  "for,  tkough  Marian  Lindsey 
were  not  as  beautiful  as  Marian  Grey,  she  was  gentle, 
pure  and  good."  And  then,  as  he  sought  his  pillow, 
he  went  back  again  in  fancy  to  that  feverish  sick-room, 
and  the  tender  love  which  alone  had  saved  him  from 
death ;  ^hile  mingled  with  this  remembrance  were 
confused  thoughts  of  the  vailed  maiden  in  the  corner 
of  the  car — of  the  geranium  growing  in  the  window, 
and  of  Marian  Grey,  who  seemed  a  part  of  every  thing 
— for,  turn  which  way.  he  would,  her  blue  eyes  were 
sure  to  shine  upon  him ;  and  once,  when,  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, he  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep,  she  said  to  him, 
"  I  am  the  Marian  you  seek." 

Then  this  vision  faded,  and  he  saw  a  little  grave,  on 
whose  humble  stone  was  written,  "  The  Heiress  of 
Redstone  Hall,"  and  with  a  nervous  start  he  woke, 
only  to  doze  and  dream  again,  until  at  last  he  was  glad 
when  the  dawn  came  stealing  across  the  misty  river, 
and  looked  in  at  his  window.  The  sun  was  not  yet  up 
when  he  arose,  and  going  out  upon  the  broad  piazza, 
tried  by  walking  to  gain  the  rest  the  night  had  failed 
to  bring.  As  he  walked  Spottie  came  purring  to  his 
side,  rubbing  against  his  feet  and  looking  into  his  face 
as  it'  she  fain  would  tell  him,  if  she  could,  that  the  lost 
one  had  returned,  and  was  safe  beneath  his  roof. 

Frederic  Raymond  could  not  be  said  to  care  partic- 
ularly for  cats,  but  there  was  a  charm  connected  with 
this  one  gambolling  at  his  feet,  and  he  did  not  deem  it 
an  unmanly  act  to  stoop  down  and  caress  it  for  the 
sake  of  her  who  had  often  had  it  in  her  arms, 
v-  "  Can  you  tell  me  nothing  of  your  mistress,"  he  said, 
aloud,  for  he  thought  himself  alone. 

Instantly  the  cat,  whose  ear  had  caught  a  sound  he 
did  not  hear,  bounded  toward  the  door  where  Marian 
Grey  was  standing.  Advancing  toward  her,  Frederic 
said,  "  You  must  excuse  me,  Sliss  Grey.  I  am  not 
often  guilty  of  petting  cats,  but  this  one  has  a  peculiar 


LIFE   AT   RIVERSIDE  321 

attraction  for  me,  inasmuch  as  it  once  belonged  to — to 
— lo  Mrs.  Raymond,"  and  Fredeiic  felt  vastly  relieved 
to  think  he  had  actually  spoken  of  his  wife  to- Marian 
Grey,  and  called  her  Mrs.  Raymond,  too  !  He  knew 
Will  Gordon  had  told  her  the  story,  and  when  he  saw 
how  the  color  came  and  went  upon  her  cheek,  he  fan- 
cied that  it  arose  from  the  delicacy  she  would  naturally 
feel  in  talking  with  him  of  his  runaway  wife.  He  was 
glad  he  had  introduced  the  subject,  and  she  should 
continue  it  or  not,  as  she  choose.  Marian  hardly  knew 
how  to  reply,  for  though  she  longed  to  hear  what  he 
had  to  say  of  Mrs.  Raymond,  she  scarcely  dared  trust 
herself  to  question  him. 

At  last,  however,  she  ventured  to  say,  "Yes,  Alice 
told  me  that  it  was  once  your  wife's.  She  is  dead, 
isn't  she  2" 

Fredeiic  started,  and  walking  off  a  few  paces,  re- 
plied, "Marian  dead!  not  that  I  know  of!  Did  you 
ever  hear  that  she  was?"  and  he  came  back  to  Marian, 
looking  at  her  so  earnestly  that  she  colored  deeply,  as 
she  replied : 

"  Mr.  Gordon  told  me  something  of  her;  and  I  had  the 
impression  that " 

She  did  not  know  how  to  finish  the  sentence,  and  she 
was  glad  to  hear  a  little,  uncertain  step  upon  the  stairs, 
as  that  was  an  excuse  for  her  to  break  oft'  abruptly, 
and  go  to  Alice,  who  had  come  down  in  quest  of  her, 
expressing  much  surprise  that  she  should  rise  so  early 
and  dress  so  quietly. 

"Mrs.  Jones  used  to  make  such  a  noise  coughing  and 
sneezing,'  she  said,  "that  the  always  woke  me,  while 
Isabel  never  got  up  till  breakfast  was  read}',  and  some- 
times not  then,  when  we  were  in  Kentucky.  Negroes 
were  made  to  wait  on  her,  she  said.  x  She'll  be  coming 
•'over  here  to  call  and  see  how  you  look.  I  heard  her 
asking  Mrs.  Russell  last  week  if  you  were  pretty,  and 
she  said " 

"IS  ever  mind  what  she  said,"  suggested  Marian* 
ttdding  laughingly,  '"  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Huntmgton 

14* 


322  LIFE   AT   BIVERSIDE. 

before.  Will  Gordon  told  me  of  her,  and  Ben,  too. 
He  saw  her  in  Kentucky,  you  knew  ;  so  you  see,  I  am 
tolerably  well  posted  in  your  affairs  ;"  and  she  turned 
towards  Frederic,  who  was  about  to  answer,  when 
Alice,  who  had  climbed  into  a  chair,  and  was  standing 
with  her  arm  around  the  young  man's  neck,  chimed 
in : 

"  If  Mr.  Gordon  told  you  that  Frederic  liked  her,  it 
isn't  so,  for  he  don't ;  do  you,  Frederic  ?" 

"  1  like  all  the  ladies,"  was  his  reply  ;  and  the  break- 
fast bell  just  then  rang,  the  conversation  ceased,  and 
they  entered  the  house  together,  Alice  holding  fast  to 
Marian's  hand,  and  dancing  along  like  a  joyous  bird. 

"You  seem  very  happy  this  morning,"  said  Freder- 
ic, smiling  down  upon  the  happy  child. 

"  1  am,"  she  replied.  "  I'm  most  as  happy  as  I  should 
be  if  we  had  found  Marian  yesterday.  Wouldn't  it 
be  splendid  if  this  were  really  Marian,  and  wouldn't 
you  be  glad  ?" 

Frederic  ttaymond  did  not  say  yes — he  did  not  say 
anything;  but  as  he  looked  at  the  figure  in  white  pre- 
siding a  second  time  so  gracefully  at  his  table,  he  fan- 
cied riiat  it  would  not  be  a  hard  matter  f.»r  any  man  to 
be  glad  if  Marian  Grey  were  his  wife.  Breakfast  be- 
ing over,  Alice  assumed  the  responsibility  of  showing 
i.er  teacher  the  place. 

u  You  were  here  once,  I  know,"  she  said,  "  and  left 
me  those  flowers,  but  you  hadn't  time  then  to  see  half. 
There's  a  tree  down  in  the  garden,  where  Frederic's 
name  is  cut  in  the  bark,  and  Marian  Lindsey's,  too. 
You  must  see  that ;"  and  she  led  her  off  to  the  spot 
where  John  had  seen  her  crying  the  day  before.  "I 
ain't  going  to  study  a  bit  for  ever  so  long.  Frederic 
says  I  needn't,"  said  Alice.  "I'm  going  to  have 
a  right  nice  time  with  you."  And  Marian  was  not 
borry,  for  nothing  could  please  her  better  than  ram- 
bling with  Alice  over  what  was  once  her  home. 

Very  rapidly  the  tirst  few  days  passed  away,  and  ere 
a  week  had  gone  by,  Marian  understood  tolerably  well 


LIFE   AT  RIVERSIDE.  323 

the  place  which  Marian  Lindsey  occupied  in  her  hus- 
band's affections,  and  she  needed  not  the  letter  received 
from  William  Gordon  to  tell  her  that  the  Frederic 
Raymond  of  to-day  was  not  the  same  from  whose  pre- 
sence she  had  once  fled  with  a  breaking  heart.  He 
was  greatly  changed,  and  if  she  had  loved  him  in  the 
early  days  of  her  girlhood,  her  heart  clung  to  him  now 
with  an  affection  tenfold  stronger  than  she  had  ever 
known  before.  From  Alice,  who  was  very  communi- 
cative, she  learned  many  tilings  of  which  she  little 
dreamed,  when  in  New  York  she  was  hiding  from  her 
husband,  and  believing  that  he  hated  her.  Alice  liked 
nothing  better  than  to  talk  of  Marian,  and  one  after- 
noon, when  Frederic  was  in  New  York,  and  the  two 
girls  were  sitting  together  in  their  pleasant  chamber, 
she  told  her  sad  story  in  her  own  childish  way,  accept- 
ing her  companion's  tears,  which  fell  like  rain  as  to- 
kens of  sympathy  for  the  lost  one. 

"  Frederic  cried  just  like  he  wras  a  woman,"  she  said, 
"  when  he  came  up  from  the  river,  cold,  and  wet,  and 
sick,  and  told  us  they  could  not  mid  her.  I  remember, 
too,  how  he  groaned  when  I  asked  him  what  made  her 
kill  herself;  she  didn't,  though,"  she  added  quickly,  as 
she  heard  Marian's  exclamation  of  horror  at  the  very 
idea ;  "she  wasn't  even  dead,  but  we  thought  she  was, 
and  we  mourned  for  her  so  much.  The  house  was  like 
a  funeral  all  the  time  till  Isabel  came." 

"  And  how  was  it  then  ?"  Marian  asked. 

Alice  did  not  reply  immediately,  and  as  Marian  saw 
the  shadow  which  flitted  over  her  face,  she  pressed  her 
hands  together  nervously,  for  she  fancied  that  she 
knew  what  liedstone  Hall  was  like  when  Isabel,  her 
rival,  came. 

"  You  were  telling  me  about  the  house  after  Miss 
Huntington's  arrival,"  she  rejoined,  as  Alice  showed 
no  signs  of  continuing  the  conversation,  but  sat  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor  as  if  she  were  thinking 
of  something  far  back  in  the  past. 


324:  LIFE    AT    RIVERSIDE. 

At  Marian's  remark  she  started,  and  with,  the  same 
dreamy,  perplexed  look  upon  her  face,  replied  : 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  tell ;  but  you  seem  so  near 
to  me  that  I  don't  believe  Frederic  would  care.  He's 
got  over  it,  too,  but  he  loved  Isabel,"  and  Alice's  voice 
sank  to  a  whisper,  as  if  afraid  the  walls  would  hear. 
"  ide  loved  her  a  heap  better  than  he  did  poor  dear 
Marian,  who  somehow  found  it  out  that  night,  and 
rather  than  be  his  wife  when  he  didn't  want  her,  she 
ran  away,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  gasped  Marian,  while  Alice,  lit- 
tle dreaming  how  well  she  knew,  continued,  "And  so 
when  Isabel  came,  he  couldn't  help  loving  her  some,  I 
suppose,  though  Dinah  thought  he  could,  and  she  used 
to  scold  mightily  when  she  heard  her  singing  and 
playing,  as  she  did  all  the  tirita,  so  as  to  get  Frederic 
in  there,"  and  Alice's  tone  and  manner  were  so  much 
like  old  Dinah  and  so  highly  expressive  of  her  mean- 
ing, that  Marian  could  not  forbear  smiling.  "  I  talked 
to  Frederic  one  night,"  said  Alice,  "and  told  him  I 
didn't  believe  Marian  was  dead,  and  I  reckon  I  made 
him  think  so,. too,  for  he  promised' lie  would  wait  for 
her  ten  years." 

"  Will  he  marry  then,  if  he  does  not  find  her?"  Ma- 
rian asked  by  way  of  calling  out  the  little  girl,  who 
replied : 

"  I  suppose  he  won't  live  all  his  life  alone  ;  at  any 
rate,  he  said  he  wouldn't.  Oh,  Miss  Grey!"  and  Alice 
started  so  quickly  that  Marian  started,  too ;  u  I'd  a 
heap  rather  Marian  would  be  his  wife  than  anybody, 
because  he  married  her  first ;  but  if  she  don't  come 
back,  can't  you  guess  what  I  wish  would  be  ?"  and 
Alice  wound  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  Marian,  who 
did  guess,  but  could  not  embody  her  guessing  iii 
words. 

"  Did  Mr.  Raymond  never  hear  from  her  ?"  she 
asked,  and  resuming  her  seat,  Alice  replied: 

l'  Yes,  and  that's  the  mystery.  One  cold  March 
night  when.  Isabel  was  dressing  for  a  party,  and  was 


LIFE   AT   KIVEKSIDE.  325 

just  as  cross  as  she  could  be,  there  came  to  him  a  let- 
ter from  Sarah  Green,  saying  she  was  dead  and  buried 
with  canker  rash." 

"  Dead !"  exclaimed  Marian,  starting  quickly. 
"  When  ?  Where  ?" 

"  In  New  York,"  answered  Alice  ;  and  Marian  list- 
ened breathlessly  to  the  story  of  her  supposed  decease, 
wondering,  as  Frederic  had  often  done,  whence  the 
letter  came,  and  why  it  had  been  sent. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  plan  of  Ben's  ta  see  what 
he  would  do,"  she  thought ;  and  she  listened  again, 
with  burning  cheeks  and  beating  heart,  while  Alice 
told  of  Frederic's  grief  when  he  read  that  she  was 
dead. 

"  I  know  he  cried,"  said  Alice,  "  for  there  were 
tears  on  his  face,  and  he  sat  so  still,  and  held  me  so 
.close  to  him  that  I  could  hear  his  heart  thump  so  hard," 
and  she  illustrated  by  striking  her  tiny  fist  upon  the 
table. 

Then  she  told  how  sometime  after  she  had  interrup- 
ted Frederic  in  the  parlor,  just  as  he  was  asking  Isa- 
bel to  be  his  wife,  and  h;<d  almost  convinced  him  again 
of  Marian's  existence. 

"  Blessed  Alice,"  said  Marian,  involuntarily.  "  You 
have  been  Miss  Lindsey's  good  angel,  and  kept  her 
husband  from  falling." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  answered  Alice.  "  I  most 
knew  she  was  alive ;  and  I  was  so  glad  when  he 
started  for  New  York.  I  was  sure  he'd  tind  her  ;  »nd 
he  did.  She  took  care  of  him  a  few  days  and  his  voice 
sounded  so  low  and  sad  when  he  told  me  of  her,  and  how 
she  left  him.  when  Isabel  came.  Your  brother  Ben — 
the  nice  man  who  gave  me  the  bracelet — telegraphed 
for  her  to  go ;  and  you  would  suppose  she  was  crazy 
— she  flew  around  so,  ordering  the  negroes,  and 
knocking  Dud  down  flat,  because  he  couldn't  ran  fast 
enough  to  get  out  of  her  way.  That  made  Aunt 
Hetty,  his  grandmother,  mad,  and  she  yellowed  Isa- 
bel's collar  that  she  was  ironing.  If  I  hadn't  been 


326  LIFE   AT  RIVERSIDE. 

•  x. 

blind  I  should  have  cried  myself  so  those  dreadful  days 
when  we  expected  to  hear  Frederic  was  dead,  for 
next  to  Marian  I  love  him  the  best.  He's  real  good 
to  me  now ;  and  when  I  asked  him  once  what  made 
him  pet  me  so  much  more  than  he  used  to,  he  said, 
4  Because  our  dear,  lost  Marian  loved  you,  and  you 
loved  her.' " 

"  Did  he  say  that  ?  Did  he  call  her  his  *  dear,  lost  Ma- 
rian ?' "  and  the  eyes  of  the  speaker  sparkled  with  de- 
light, while  across  her  mind  there  flitted  the  half- 
formed  resolution  that  before  the  sun  had  set  Fred- 
eric Raymond  should  know  the  whole. 

Ere  Alice  could  answer  this  question,  there  was  a 
loud  ring  at  the  door,  and  a  servant  brought  to  Miss 
Grey  Isabel  Huntington's  card. 

"  I  knew  she'd  call,"  said  Alice.  "She  wants  to 
see  how  you  look  ;  but  I  don't  care,  for  Frederic  says 
you're  a  heap  the  handsomest;  I  asked  him  last  nighf 
after  you  quit  playing,  and  had  left  the  room." 

The  knowledge  that  Frederic  Raymond  preferred 
her  face  to  that  of  Isabel,  rendered  Marian  far  more 
self-possessed  than  she  would  otherwise  have  been,  as 
she  went  down  to  meet  her  visitor,  whose  call  was 
prompted  from  mere  curiosity,  and  not  from  any 
friendliness  she  felt  towards  Marian  Grey.  Isabel  had 
heard  much  of  Marian's  beauty  from  those  who  met 
her  since  her  arrival  at  Riverside,  and  she  had  come  to 
see  if  rumor  were  correct.  During  the  last  three 
years  she  had  not  improved  materially,  for  her  disap- 
pointment in  failing  to  win  Frederic  Raymond  had 
soured  a  disposition  never  particularly  amiable,  and 
she  was  now  a  censorious,  fault-finding  woman  of 
twenty -five,  on  the  lookout  for  a  husband,  and  trembling 
lest  the  dreaded  age  of  thirty  should  find  ner  still  un- 
married. For  Frederic  Raymond  she  affected  a  feel- 
ing of  contempt;  insinuating  that  he  was  mean — that 
his  property  was  not  gained  honestly  ;  that  she  knew 
something  which  she  could  tell  but  shouldn't — all  of 
which  had  but  little  effect  in  a  place  where  he  was  so 


LIFE   AT   KIVEKSIDE.  327 

much  better  known  than  herself.  And  still,  had  Fred« 
eric  Raymond  evinced  the  slightest  interest  in  her,  she 
would  gladly  have  met  him  more  than  half  the  way, 
for  the  love  she  really  felt  for  him  once  had  never 
died  away.  And  even  now  she  watched  him  often 
through  blinding  tears  as  he  passed  her  cottage 
door.  The  story  of  Marian's  existence  she  had  repu- 
diated at  first  and  in  the  excitement  of  going  south, 
and  the  incidents  connected  with  her  sojourn  there, 
she  had  failed  to  speak  of  it  even  to  Mrs.  Rivers, 
choosing  rather  to  make  her  friends  believe  that  she 
had  deliberately  refused  the  owner  of  Redstone 
Hall.  Recently,  however,  and  since  her  arrival  at 
Riverside,  she  had  indirectly  circulated  the  story,  and 
Frederic  had  more  than  once  been  questioned  as  to  its 
authenticity.  Greatly  to  Isabel's  chagrin  he  took  no 
pains  to  conceal  the  tact,  but  frankly  spoke  of  Mrs. 
Raymond,  as  a  person  who  had  been,  and  who  he  hoped 
was  still  a  living  reality.  Very  narrowly  Isabel  watched 
the  proceedings  at  Riverside,  and  when  she  heard 
that  Alice's  new  governess  was  in  some  way  connected 
with  the  "gawky  peddler,"  whom  she  remembered 
well,  she  sneered  at  her  as  a  person  of  no  refinement, 
marvelling  greatly  at  the  praises  bestowed  upon  her. 
At  last,  curious  to  see  for  herself,  she  donned  her 
richest  robes,  and  now  in  the  parlor  at  Riverside,  sat 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  Miss  Grey. 

"Let  her  be  what  she  will,  Frederic  can't  marry 
her,  and  that's  some  consolation,"  she  thought,  just 
as  a  tripping  footstep  announced  the  approach  of  Ma- 
rian, and,  assuming  her  haughtiest  manner,  she  arose, 
and  bowed  to  Frederic  Raymond's  wife. 

They  had  met  before,  but  there  was  no  token  of  re- 
cognition between  them  now,  and  as  strangers  they 
greeted  each  other,  Marian's  hand  trembling  slightly 
as  she  ottered  it  to  Isabel — for  she  knew  that  this  WHS 
not  their  first  meeting.  Coldly,  inquisitively  and  al- 
racwt  impudently,  the  haughty  Isabel  scrutinized 
the  graceful  creature,  mentally  acknowledging  that 


328  LIFE   AT   KIVER8IDE. 

ishe  was  beautiful,  and  hating  her  for  it.  With  great 
effort  Marian  concealed  her  agitation,  and  answered 
carelessly  the  first  few  common-place  remarks  ad- 
dressed to  her,  as  to  how  she  liked  Kiverside,  and  if 
this  were  her  first  visit  there. 

"  'No"  she  answered  to  this  last  question — "  I  came 
here  once  with  Ben,  who,  you  remember,  was  once  at 
Iledjtone  Hall." 

"I  could  not  well  forget  him.  His  odd  Yankee 
ways  furnished  gossip  for  many  a  day  among  the  ne- 

Sroes."  And  Isabel  tossed  her  head  scornfully,  as  if 
en  Burt  were  a  creature  far  beneath  her  notice. 

After  a  little,  she  spoke  of  Mr.  Raymond,  asking 
Marian,  finally,  what  she  thought  of  him,  and  saying 
she  supposed  she  knew  he  was  a  married  man. 

"I  know  he  has  been  married,  but  is  there  any  cer- 
tainty that  his  wife  is  still  living?"  asked  Marian,  for 
the  sake  of  hearing  her  visitor's  remarks. 

"  Any  certainty !  Of  course  there  is,"  said  Isabel, 
experiencing  at  once  a  pang  of  jealousy  lest  the  hum- 
ble Marian  Grey  had  dared  to  think  of  Frederic  as  a 
widower,  and  hence  a  marriageable  man.  '•  Of  course 
she's  living,  though,  I  must  say,  he  takes  no  great  pains 
to  find  her.  He  did  look  for  her  a  little,  I  believe,  af- 
ter he  was  sick  in  New  York  ;  but  he  did  it  more  to 
divert  his  mind  from  a  very  mortifying  disappoint- 
ment than  from  any  affection  he  felt  for  her,  and  it  was 
ihis  which  prompted  him  to  go  to  New  York  at  all." 

"What  disappointment?'5  Marian  asked,  faintly, 
and,  affecting  to  be  embarrassed,  Isabel  replied  : 

"  It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to  say  what  the 
nature  of  it  was,  and  I  referred  to  it  thoughtlessly. 
Pray,  forget  it,  Miss  Grey  ;""  and  she  turned  the  leaves 
of  a  handsomely  bound  volume  lying  on  the  table  with 
well  feigned  modesty. 

Marian  understood  her  at  once,  and  was  glad  that 
Isabel  was  too  intent  upon  an  engraving  to  observe 
her  agitation. "  Notwithstanding  what  Alice  said, 
Frederic  had  offered  himself  to  Isabel,  and  her  refusal 


LIFE   AT    RIVEBSEDE.  329 

•  A 

had  sent  him  to  New  York,  where  he  hoped  to  forget 
his  mortification,  and  where  sickness  had  overtaken 
him.  In  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  Isabel  had  come 
to  him,  and  the  words  of  affection  which  she  had  heard 
her  speak  to  Frederic  were  prompted  by  pity,  rather 
than  love,  as  she  then  supposed.  And  after  Isabel  had 
left  him,  he  had  looked  tor  her  merely  by  way  of  ex- 
citement, and  not  because  he  cared  to  find  her.  Such 
were  the  thoughts  which  flashed  upon  Marian's  mind 
and  destroyed  at  once  her  half-formed  resolution  of 
telling  Frederic  that  night.  She  did  not  know  Isabel, 
and  she  could  not  understand  why  she  should  be  guilty 
of  a  falsehood  to  her — a  perfect  stranger. 

"  He  is  not  learning  to  love  me,  after  all,"  was  the 
sad  cry  of  her  heart ;  and,  when  she  spoke  again,  there 
was  a  plaintive  tone  in  her  voice,  and  Isabel  wondered 
she  had  not  observed  before  how  mournful  it  was. 
And,  as  they  sat  talking,  there  came  along  the  grav-v 
eled  walk  a  step  familiar  to  them  both,  and  the  color 
deepened  on  their  cheeks;  while  in  the  kindling  light 
which  shone  in  the  eyes  of  blue,  and  flashed  from  the 
eyes  of  black,  there  was  a  spark  of  jealousy,  as  if  each 
were  reading  the  secret  thoughts  of  the  other. 

Frederic  had  returned  from  t\\Q  city  earlier  than  was 
his  custom,  for  he  usually  spent  the  entire  day  ;  but 
there  was  something  now  to  draw  him  home  besides 
the  blind  girl,  and  he  was  conscious  of  quickening  his 
footsteps  as  hu  drew  near  his  house,  and  of  watching 
eagerly  for  the  flutter  of  a  mourning  robe,  or  the  sight 
of  a  sunny  face,  which,  he  knew,  would,  smile  a  wel- 
come. He  heard  her  voice  in  the  parlor,  and  ere  he 
was  aware  of  it,  he  stood  in  the  presence  of  Isabel. 
Narrowly  Marian  watched  him,  marvelling  somewhat 
at  his  perfect  self-possession  ;  for  Isabel  was  to  him  "an 
object  of  such  indifference  that  he  experienced  far  less 
emotion  in  meeting  her.  than  in  speaking  to  Marian 
Grey,  and  asking  if  she  had  been  lonely. 

"  You  men  are  so  vain,,"  said  Isabel,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head,  "and  think  we  miss  vou  so  much.  Now  I'll 


330  LIFE   AT   KIVEKSIDE. 

• 

venture  to  say  Miss  Grey  has  not  thought  of  you  in  a. 
day.  Why  should  she?"" 

"Why  shouldn't  she?"  asked  Frederic,  giving  to 
Marian  a  smile  which  sent  the  hot  blood  tingling  to 
her  finger  tips. 

"  Why  shouldn't  she!"'  returned  Isabel — "just  as 
though  we,  girls,  ever  think  of  married  men.  By  the 
way,  have  you  heard  anything  definite  from  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond, since  she  left  you  so  suddenly  in  New  York,  or 
have  you  given  up  the  search  ?" 

Marian  pitied  Frederic  then,  he  turned  so  white ; 
and  she  almost  hated  Isabel,  as  she  saw  the  malicious 
triumph  in  her  eye.  Breathlessly,  too,  she  awaited  the 
answer,  which  was : 

"I  shall  never  abandon  the  search  until  I  find  her, 
or  know  certainly  that  .she  is  dead.  I  went  to  the 
place  where  she  used  to  live,  not  long  ago." 

'•  Indeed  !  What  did  you  learn  ?"  and  a  part  of  Is- 
abel's assurance  left  her,  for  she  felt  that  his  searching 
f»>r  his  wife  was  a  reality  with  him;  while  Marian's 
heart  grew  hopeful  and  warm  again,  as  she  listened  to 
Frederic  Raymond  telling  Isabel  fluntington  of  that 
dear  old  room  which  had  been  her  home  so  long. 

"  I  can't  conceive  what  made  her  run  away,"  said 
Isabel,  fixing  her  large,  glittering  eyes  upon  Frederic, 
who  coolly  replied,  "  lean,"  and  then  turning  to  Ma- 
rian he  abruptly  commenced  a  conversation  upon  an 
entirely  different  subject. 

•  -.  Biting  her  lip  with  vexation,  Isabel  arose  to  go,  say- 
ing she  should  expect  to  see  Miss  Grey  at  her  own 
house,  and  that  she  hoped  she  would  sometimes  bring 
Mr.  Raymond  with  her. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  to  come,"  she  continued, 
addressing  herself  to  him.  "  for  everybody  knows  you 
have  a  wife,  consequently  your  coining  will  create  no 
scandal  concerning  yourself  and  mother  /"  and  with  a 
hateful  laugh  she  swept  haughtily  down  the  walk. 

From  this  time  forth  Isabel  was  a  frequent  visitor  at 
Riverside,  where  she  always  managed  to  say  something 


LIFE   AT   RIVERSIDE.  331 

which  seriously  affected  Marian's  peace  of  mind  and 
led  her  to  distrust  the  man  who  was  beginning  to  feel 
far  more  interest  in  the  Marian  found  than  in  the  Ma- 
rian lost.  This  the  quick-sighted  Isabel  saw  and  while 
her  bosom  rankled  with  envy  towards  her  rival,  she  ex- 
ulted in  the  thought  that  love  her  as  he  might  he  dared 
not  tell  her  of  his  love,  for  a  barrier  the  living  wife 
had  built  between  the  two.  Though  professing  the  ut- 
most regard  for  Miss  Grey  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
speak  against  her  when  an  opportunity  occurred,  but 
her  shafts  fell  harmlessly,  for  where  Marian  was  known 
she  was  esteemed  and  the  wily  woman  gave  up  the 
contest  at  last  and  waited  anxiously  to  see  the  end. 

Towards  the  last  of  October,  Ben,  who  was  now  a 
petty  grocer  in  a  New  England  village,  came  to  River- 
side for  the  first  time  since  Marian's  residence  there. 
Never  before  had  he  appeared  so  happy,  and  his 
honest  face  was  all  aglow  with  his  delight  at  seeing 
Marian  at  last  where  she  belonged. 

"  You  fit  in  like  an  odd  scissor,"  he  said  to  her  when 
they  were  alone.  "  Ain't  it  most  time  to  tell  2" 

"  Not  yet,"  returned  Marian.  "  I  would  rather 
wait  until  I  arn  back  at  Redstone  Hall.  We  are  going 
there  next  month,  and  then,  too,  I  wish  1  knew  how 
much  of  Isabel's  insinuations  to  believe." 

"Isabel  be  hanged,"  said  Ben.  "She  lied  I  know, 
and  mebby  that  letter  was  some  of  her  devilment. 
Has  she  washed  them  curtains  yit  ?'' 

Marian  replied  by  telling  him  of  the  letter  from. 
Sarah  Green  and  asking  if  he  could  explain  it.  But  it 
was  all  a  mystery  to  him,  and  he  puzzled  his  brain 
with  it  for  a  long  time,  deciding  at  last  that  it  might 
have  come  from  some  of  h-ar  Kentucky  acquaintance 
who  chanced  to  be  in  New  STork,  and  sent  it  just  for 
mischief. 

"  But  they  overshot  the  mark,"  said  he.  "  You  ain't 
dead  by  a  great  sight,  and  I  b'lieve  I'd  let  the  cat  out 
pretty  soon.  That  makes  me  think  you  wrote  that 


332  LIFE   AT   RIVERSIDE. 

Spottie  was  here.  Where  is  the  critter  ?  'Tvvould  be 
good  for  sore  eyes  to  see  her  again." 

Marian  went  in  quest  of  her,  and  on  her  return 
found  Alice  with  Ben,  who,  in  her  presence,  dared  not 
manifest  all  that  he  felt  at  sight  of  his  old  friend. 
Taking  the  animal  on  his  lap  he  looked  at  it  for  a  mo- 
ment with  quivering  chin  ;  then  stroking  its  soft  fur, 
he1  said,  with  a  prolongation  of  each  syllable,  which 
rendered  the  sound  ludicrous,  "  Gri-mal-kin — poor 
gri-inal-kin^  and  a  tear  dropped  on  its  back. 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Alice,  coming  to  his  side, 
"  what  did  yon  call  the  kitty  ?" 

"  Gri-mal-kin"  answered  Ben,  adding,  by  way 
of  explanation,  "  that,  I  b'lieve,  is  the  Latin  for 
cat." 

Marian  could  not  forbear  laughing  aloud,  and  as  Ben 
joined  with  her,  it  served  to  keep  him  from  crying  out- 
right, as  he  otherwise  might  have  done. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  when  you  go 
South  ?"  he  asked,  and  upon  Alice's  replying  that  they 
should  leave  it  with  Mi's.  Hussell,  he  proposed  taking 
it  instead  and  keeping  it  until  Spring,  when  he  could 
return  it. 

This  suggestion  was  warmly  seconded  by  Marian, 
and  as  Alice  finally  yielded  the  point,  Ben  carried 
Spottie  off  the  next  morning,  promising  the  little  girl 
that  it  should  be  well  cared  for  in  her  absence.  Alice 
ehed  a  few  tears  at  parting  with  her  pet,  but  they  were 
like  April  showers,  and  soon  passed  away  in  her  joy- 
ful anticipations  of  a  speedy  removal  to  Kentucky,  for 
Frederic  was  going  earlier  this  season  than  usual,  and 
the  10th  of  November  was  appointed  for  them  to  start. 
If  they  met  with  no  delays  they  would  reach  Redstone 
.Hull  on  the  anniversary  of  Marian's  bridal,  and  to  her 
it  seemed  meet  that  on  this  day  of  all  others  she  should 
return  again  to  her  old  home,  and  she  wondered  if 
Frederic,  too,  would  think  of  it  or  send  one  feeling  cf 
regret  after  his  missing  bride.  He  did  remember  it, 
for  the  November  days  were  always  fraught  with  me 


LIFE   AT   RIVEKSID1!.  333 

mories  of  the  past.  This  year,  however,  there  was  a 
difference,  for  though  he  thought  much  of  Marian 
Lindsey,  it  was  not  as  he  had  thought  of  her  before, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  most  unaccountable  sensa- 
tion of  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  even  if  she  could 
not  go  with  him  to  Kentucky,  her  place  would  be  tole 
rably  well  filled  by  Marian  Grey  1 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

BEDSTONE   HALL. 

had  been  received  at  Redstone  Hall,  that  the 
family  woull  be  there  on  the  13th;  but  Frederic's 
coming  home  was  a  common  occurrence  now,  and  did 
not  create  as  great  a  sensation  among  his  servants  as  it 
once  had  done.  Still  it  was  an  event  of  considerable 
importance,  particularly  as  he  was  to  bring  with  him  a 
new  governess,  who,  juiging  from  his  apparent  anx- 
iety to  have  everything  in  order,  was  a  persoy  of  more 
distinction  than  the  prosy  Mrs.  Jones,  or  even  the  bril- 
liant Isabel.  Old  Dinah  accordingly  worked  herself 
up  to  her  usual  pitch  of  excitement,  and  then,  long 
before  it  was  time,  started  off  her  spouse,  who  was  to 
meet  his  master  at  Big  Spring  Station,  and  who  waited 
there  impatiently  at  least  an  hour  ere  the  whistle  and 
smoke  in  the  distance  announced  the  arrival  of  the 
train. 

"We  are  here  at  last,"  said  Frederic,  when  they 
stopped  before  the  depot ;  and  he  touched  the  arm  of 
Marian,  who  sat  leaning  against  a  window,  her  head 
bent  down,  and  her  thoughts  in  such  a  wild  tumult 
that  she  scarcely  comprehended  what  she  was  doing  or 
where  she  was. 

During  the  entire  journey  she  had  labored  under  the 
highest  excitement,  which  manifested  itself  sometimes 
in  snatches  of  merry  songs,  sometimes  in  laughter 
almost  hysterical,  and  again  when  no  one  saw  her,  in 
floods  of  tears,  which  failed  to  cool  her  feverish  impa- 
tience. It  seemed  to  her  she  could  not  wait,  and  she 


BEDSTONE    HALL.  335 

counted  every  mile-stone,  while  her  breath  came  faster 
and  faster  as  she  knew  they  were  almost  there.  "With 
a  shudder  she  glanced  at  the  clump  of  trees  under 
whose  shadow  she  had  hidden  six  years  before,  and 
those  who  noticed  her  face  as  she  passed  out  marvelled 
at  its  deathly  pallor. 

"  Jest  gone  with  consumption,"  was  Phil's  mental 
comment ;  and  he  wondered  at  the  eager,  curious 
glance  which  she  gave  to  him.  "  'Spects  she  never 
seen  a  nigger  before,"  he  muttered;  and  as  by  this 
time  the  travelers  were  comfortably  seated  in  the  wide 
capacious  carriage,  he  chirrnpped  to  his  horses,  and 
they  moved  rapidly  on  toward  'Redstone  Hall. 

Marian  did  not  try  longer  to  conceal  her  delight, 
and  Fiederic  watched  her  wonderingly,  as  with  glow- 
ing cheeks  and  beaming  eyes  she  looked  first  from  one 
window  and  then  from  the  other,  the  color  deepening 
on  her  face  and  the  pallor  increasing  about  her  mouth, 
as  way-mark  after  way-mark  was  passed  and  recog- 
nized. 

"  You  seem  very  much  excited,"  -he  said  to  her  at 
last ;  and,  assuming  as  calm  a  manner  as  possible,  she 
replied : 

"  For  years  back  the  one  cherished  object  of  my  life 
was  to  visit  Kentucky ;  and  now  that  I  am  really  here, 
I  am  so  glad  !  oh,  so  glad  !"  and  Frederic  could  see  the 
gladness  shining  in  her  eyes,  and  making  her  so  won- 
drously  beautiful  to  look  upon  that  he  was  sorry  when 
the  twilight  shadows  began  to  fall,  and  partially  ob- 
scured his  vision. 

"  There  is  the  house,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  chim- 
neys, just  discernible  above  the  trees. 

But  Marian  had  seen  them  first,  and  when  as  they 
turned  a  corner,  the  entire  building  came  in  view,  she 
sank  back  upon  the  cushion,  dizzy  and  sick  with  the 
thoughts  which  came  crowding  so  fast  upon  her.  The 
day  had  been  soft  and  balmy,  and  mingled  with  the 
gathering  darkness  was  the  yellow,  hazy  light  the  sun 
of  the  Iiidiam  summer  often  leaves  upon  the  hills.  The 


336  BEDSTONE    HALL. 

early  mist  lay  white  upon  the  river,  while  here  and 
there  a  shower  of  leaves  came  rustling  down  from  the 
tall  trees,  which  grew  in  snch  profusion  around  the  old 
stone  house.  And  Marian  saw  everything  —  heard 
everything — and  when  the  horses'  hoots  struck  upon 
the  bridge,  where  once  they  fancied  she  had  stood  and 
plunged  into  eternity,  an  icy  chill  ran  through  her 
frame,  depriving  her  of  the  power  to  speak  or  move. 
Through  the  dim  twilight  she  saw  the  dusky  forms 
gathered  expectantly  around  the  cabin  doors — saw  the 
full,  rounded  figure  of  Dinah  on  the  piazza — saw  the 
vine-wreathed  pillar  where  six  years  ago  that  very 
night,  she  had  leaned  with  a  breaking  heart,  and  wept 
her  passionate  adieu  to  the  man,  who,  sitting  opposite 
to  her  now,  little  dreamed  of  what  was  passing  in  her 
mind.  In  a  distant  hemp  field  she  heard  the  song  some 
negroes  sang  returning  from  their  labor,  and  as  she  list- 
ened to  the  plaintive  music,  her  tears  began  to  flow,  it 
seemed  so  natural — so  much  like  the  olden  time. 

Suddenly  as  they  drew  nearer  and  the  song  of  the 
negroes  ceased  the  stillness  was  broken  by  the  deafen- 
ing yell  which  Bruno,  from  his  cage,  sent  up.  His  voice 
had  been  the  last  to  bid  the  runaway  good  bye,  and 
it  was  the  first  to  welcome  her  back  again.  With  a 
stifled  sob  of  joy  too  deep  for  utterance,  she  drew  her 
veil  still  closer  over  her  face,  and  when  at  last  they 
stopped  and  the  light  from  the  hall  shone  out  upon 
her,  she"  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage  motionless 
and  still. 

"  Come,  Miss  Grey,"  said  Frederic,  when  Alice  had 
been  safely  deposited  and  was  folded  to  Dinah's  bosom, 
"  Come,  Miss  Grey,  are  you  sleeping  ?"  and  he  touched 
the  hand  which  lay  cold  and  lifeless  upon  her  lap. 
*'  She  has  fainted,"  he  cried.  "The  journey  and  ex- 
citement have  over-taxed  her  strength,"  and,  taking 
her  in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  child,  he 
bore  her  into  the  house  and  up  to  her  own  chamber, 
for  he  rightly  guessed  that  she  would  rather  be  there 
when  she  returned  to  consciousness. 


BEDSTONE   HALL.  337 

Laying  her  upon  the  lonnge,  he  removed  her  bon- 
net and  veil,  and  then  kneeling  beside  her,  looked 
wistfully  into  her  face,  which  in  its  helplessness  seem- 
ed more  beautiful  than  ever. 

"Has  she  come  to,  yet  ?"  asked  the  puffing  Dinah, 
appearing  at  the  door.  "  It's  narves  what  ailed  her,  I 
reckon,  and  I  told  Lyd  to  put  some  delirian  to  the 
steep.  That'll  quiet  her  soonest  of  anything." 

Frederic  knew  that  his  services  were  no  longer  need- 
ed, and  after  glancing  about  the  room  to  see  that 
everything  was  right,  he  went  down  stairs  leaving  Ma- 
rian to  the  care  of  .Dinah,  who,  as  her  patient  began 
to  show  signs  of  returning  consciousness,  undressed  Tier 
as  soon  as  possible  and  placed  her  in  the  bed,  herself 
sitting  by  and  bathing  her  face  and  hands  in  camphor 
and  cologne.  The  fainting  fit  had  passed  away,  but  it 
was  succeeded  by  a  feeling  of  such  delicious  languor 
that  for  a  long  time  Marian  lay  perfectly  still,  think- 
ing how  nice  it  was  to  be  again  in  her  old  room  with 
Dinah  sitting  by,  and  once  as  the  hard,  black  hand 
rested  on  her  forehead,  she  took  it  between  her  own, 
murmuring  involuntarily,  "Dear  Aunt  Dinah,  I  thank 
you  so  much." 

"Blessed  lamb,"  whispered  the  old  lady,  "  they  told 
her  my  name,  I  'spect.  'Pears  like  she's  nigher  to  me 
than  strangers  mostly  is,"  and  she  smoothed  lovingly 
the  bright  hair  floating  over  the  pillow. 

Twice  that  evening  there  came  up  the  stairs  a  cau- 
tious step  which  stopped  always  at  the  door,  and  Dinah 
as  often  as  she  answered  the  gentle  knock,  came  back 
to  Marian  and  said,  "It's  marster  axin'  is  you  any 
wus." 

"Tell  him  I  am  only  tired,  not  sick,"  Marian  would 
say,  and  turning  on  her  pillow,  she  wept  great  tears 
of  joy  to  think  that  Frederic  should  thus  care  for  her. 

At  last,  having  drank  the  "delirian  tea,"  more  to 
please  old  Dinah  than  from  any  faith  she  had  in  its 
virtues,  she  fell  into  a  quiet  sleep,  which  was  disturbed 
but  twice,  once  when  at  niue  o'clock  Bruno  was  loosed 

15 


338  REDSTOlsE   HALL. 

from  his  confinement,  and  with  a  loud  howl  went  rush- 
ing past  the  window,  and  once  when  Alice  crept  care- 
fully to  her  side,  holding  her  breath  lest  she  should 
arouse  her,  and  whispering  low.  her  nightly  prayfcr. 
Then,  indeed,  Marian  moved  as  if  about  to  waken, 
and  the  blind  girl  thought  she  heard  her  say,  "Dar- 
ling Alice,"  but  she  was  not  sure,  und  she  nestled 
down  beside  her,  sleeping  ere  long  the  dreamless  sleep 
which  always  came  to  her  after  a  day  of  unusual 
fatigue. 

The  rosy  dawn  was  just  stealing  into  the  room,  next 
morning,  when  Marian  awoke  with  a  vague,  uncertain 
feeling  as  to  where  she  was,  or  what  had  happened. 
Ere  long,  however,  she  remembered  it  all ;  and,  step- 
ping upon  the  floor,  she  glided  to  the  window,  to  feast 
her  eyes  once  more  upon  her  home.  Before  her  lay 
the  garden,  and  though  the  November  frosts  had 
marred  its  Summer  glory,  it  was  still  beautiful  to  her  ; 
and,  hastily  dressing  herself,  she  \vent  forth  to  visit 
her  olden  haunts,  strolling  leisurely  on  until  she 
reached  a  little  Summer-house  which  had  been  built 
since  she  was  there.  Over  the  door  were  some  pencil 
marks,  in  Frederic's  handwriting;  and  though  the 
rains  had  partly  washed  the  letters  away,  there  were 
still  enough  remaining  for  her  to  know  that  "  Marian 
Lindsey"  had  been  written  there. 

"  He  has  sometimes  thought  of  me,"  she  said  ;  and 
she  was  about  entering  the  arboi,  when  there  rose  up- 
on the  air  a  terrific  yell,  which,  had  she  been  an  intru- 
der, would  have  sent  her  flying  from  the  spot.  But 
she  did  not  even  tremble,  and  she  awaited  fearlessly 
the  approach  of  the  huge  creature,  which,  bristling 
with  rage,  came  tearing  down  the  graveled  walk,  his 
eyeballs  glowing  like  coals  of  tire,  and  his  head  low- 
ered as  if  ready  for  attack. 

Bruno  was  still  on  guard,  and  when,  in  the  distance, 
he  caught  a  sight  of  Marian,  he  started  with  a  lion  like 
bound,  which  soon  brought  him  near  to  the  brave  girl, 


BEDSTONE   HALL.  339 

who  calmly  watched  his  coming,  and,  when  he  was 
close  upon  her,  said  to  him: 

"  Good  old  Bruno  !     Don't  you  know  me,  Bruno  ?" 

At  the  first  sound  of  her  voice,  the  fire  left  the  mas- 
tiff's eye,  for  he,  too,  caught  the  tone  which  had  once 
BO  startled  Alice,  and  which  puzzled  Frederic  every 
day;  still,  he  was  not  quite  assured,  and  he  came  rush- 
ing on,  while  she  continued  speaking  gently  to  him. 
With  a  bound,  half  playful,  half  ferocious,  he  sprang 
upon,  her,  and,  catching  him  around  the  neck,  she 
passed  her  hand  caressingly  over  his  shaggy  mane,  say- 
ing to  him,  softly, 

"  I  am  Marian,  Bruno  !     Don't  you  know  me  ?" 

Then,  indeed,  lie  answered  her — not  with  a  human 
tongue,  it  is  true ;  but  she  understood  his  language 
well,  and  by  t!ie  low,  peculiar  cry  of  joy  he  gave  as  he 
crouched  upon  the  ground,  she  knew  that  she  was  re- 
cognised. Of  all  who  had  loved  her  at  Redstone  Hall, 
none  remembered  her  save  the  noble  dog,  who  licked 
her  face,  her  hair,  her  hands,  her  dress,  her  feet ;  while 
all  the  time  his  body  quivered  with  the  intense  delight 
he  could  not  speak. 

At  last  as  she  knelt  down  beside  him,  and  laid  her 
cheek  against  his  neck,  lie  bent  his  head,  and  gave 
forth  a  deep,  prolonged  howl,  which  was  answered  at 
a  little  distance  by  a  cry  of  horror,  and  turning  quick- 
ly Marian  saw  Frederic  hastening  toward  the  spot, 
his  face  pale  as  ashes,  and  his  whole  appearance  indi- 
cative of  alarm.  Ho  had  been  roused  from  sleep  by 
the  yell  which  Bruno  gave  when  he  first  caught  sight 
of  Marian,  and  ere  he  had  time  to  think  what  it  could 
be,  Alice  knocked  at  his  door,  'exclaiming : 

"'Oh,  Frederic,  Miss  Grey,  I  am  sure,  has  gone  into 
the  garden,  and  Bruno  is  not  yet  secured.  I  heard 
him  bark  just  like  he  did  last  year  when  he  mangled 
black  Andy  so.  What  if  he  should  tear  Miss  Grey  ?" 

Frederic  waited  for  no  more,  but  dressing  himself 
quickfy  he  hastened  out,  sickening  with  fear,  as  he 
caine  upon  the  fresh  tracks  the  do^  had  made  wheu 


£40  BEDSTONE   HALL. 

going  down  the  walk.  He  saw  Marian's  dress,  and 
through  the  lattice  he  canght  a  sight  of  Bruno. 

"  He  has  her  down  !  He  is  drinking  her  life-blood  !" 
lie  thought;  and  for  an  instant  the  pulsations  of  his 
heart  stood  still,  nor  did  they  resume  their  wonted  heat 
even  after  he  saw  the  attitude  of  Marian  Grey,  and  his 
terrible  watch-dog,  Bruno. 

"  Marian  !"  he  began,  for  he  could  not  be  formal 
then.  "  Marian  !  leave  him,  I  entreat  you.  He  is  cru- 
elly savage  with  strangers." 

"  But  I  have  tamed  him,  you  see,"  she  answered, 
winding  her  arms  still  closer  around  his  neck,  while 
he  licked  aizain  her  face  and  hair. 

"VYomleringly  Frederic  looked  on,  and  all  the  while 
there  came  to  him  no  thought  that  the  two  had  met 
before — that  the  hand  patting  so  fondly  Bruno's  head 
had  fed  him  many  a  time — and  that  amid  all  the 
changes  which  six  years  had  made,  the  sagacious. ani- 
mal had  recognized  his  mistress  and  playmate,  Marian 
Lindsey. 

"It  must  be  that  you  can  win  all  hearts,"  he  said, 
watching  her  admiringly,  and  marvelling  at  her  se- 
cret power. 

Shaking  back  her  sunny  curls,  and  glancing  upward 
into  his  face  Marian  answered  involuntarily  : 

"No,  not  all.  There  is  one  I  would  have  given 
worlds  to  win,  but  it  cast  me  off,  just  when  I  needed 
comfort  the  most." 

She  spoke  impulsively,  and  as  she  spoke  there  arose 
within  her  the  wish  that  he,  like  Bruno,  might  know 
her  then  and  there.  But  he  did  not.  He  only  remem- 
bered what  Will  Gordon  had  said  of  her  hopeless  attach- 
ment and  her  apparent  confession  of  the  same  to  him, 
smote  heavihy  upon  his  heart,  though  why  he,  a  married 
man,  shouldcarehe  could  not  tell.  He  didn't  really  care, 
he  thought ;  he  only  pitied  her,  and  by  way  of  encour- 
agement he  said,  "Even  that,  may  yet  be  won;"  and 
while  he  said  it,  there  came  over  him  a  sensation  of 
dreariness,  as  if  the  winning  of  that  heart  would  ne- 


BEDSTONE   HALL.  341 

cessarily  take  from  him  something  which  was  becom- 
ing more  and  more  essential  to  his  happiness. 

"Their  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  Josh, 
who  was  Bruno's  keeper,  and  had  come  to  chain  him 
for  the  day.  Marian  knew  him  at  once,  though  he 
had  changed  from  the  short,  thick  lad  of  twelve  to  the 
taller  youth  of  seventeen  ;  and  when,  as  he  saw  her  po- 
sition with  Bruno,  he  exclaimed,  "  Goo-goo-good 
Lord  !"  she  turned  her  beaming  face  toward  him.  and 
answered  laughingly,  u  I  have  a  secret  for  charming 
dogs." 

Involuntarily  Josh's  old  cloth  cap  came  off,  while 
over  his  countenance  there  flitted  an  expression  as  if 
that  voice  were  not  entirely  strange  to  him.  Touching 
his  master's  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  kneeling  maiden, 
he  stammered  out  : 

"  Ha-ha-hain't  I  s-s-seen  her  afore?" 

"I  think  not,"  answered  Frederic,  and  with  a  doubt- 
ful shake  of  the  head,  Josh  attempted  to  lead  Bruno 
away. 

But  Bruno  would  not  move,  and  he  clung  so  obsti- 
nately to  Marian  that  she  arose,  and  pattbg  his  side, 
said  playfully  : 

"  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  with  him,  I  guess.  Lead 
the  way,  boy." 

With  eyes  protruding  like  saucers,  Josh  turned  back, 
followed  by  Marian  and  Bruno,  the  latter  of  whom  of- 
fered no  resistance  when  his  mistress  bade  him  enter 
his  kennel,  though  he  made  woundrous  efforts  to  escape 
•when  he  saw  that  she  was  leaving  him. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Lord,"  exclaimed  Hetty,  shad- 
ing her  eyes  with  her  hand,  to  be  sure  she  was  right, 
"  if  thar  ain't  the  young  lady  shettin'  up  the  dog.  I 
never  knowed  the  like  o'  that." 

Then  as  Marian  came  towards  the  kitchen,  she  con 
tinned,  "•  'Pears  like  I've  seen  her  somewhar." 

"  i"e-ye-yes,"  chimed  in  Josh,  who  had  walked  fast- 
er than  Marian.  "  Who-o-oo  is  she,  Hetty  ?" 

Marian  by  this  time  had  reached  the  door,  where 


342  BEDSTONE   HALL. 

she  stood  smiling  pleasantly  upon  the  blacks,  but  not 
daring  to  call  them  by  name  until  she  saw  Dinah,  who 
curtesied  low.  and  coming  forward  asked,  "Is  you  bet- 
ter*lhis  mornin'  ?" 

"Yes,  quite  well,  thank  you.  Are  these  your  com- 
panions ?"  said  Marian,  anxious  for  an  opportunity  to 
talk  with  her  old  friends. 

"  Yes,  honey/'  answered  Dinah.  "  This  is  Hetty, 
and  this  is  Lyd,  and  this " 

She  didn't  finish  the  sentence,  for  Hetty,  who  had 
been  earnestly  scanning  Marian's  features,  grasped  her 
dress,  saying,  "  Whar  was  yon  born?" 

"  Jest  like  them  H'gginses,"  muttered  Dinah.  "  In 
course,  Miss  Grey  don  t  want  to  be  twitted  with  bein' 
a  Yankee  the  fust  thing." 

But  Hetty  had  no  intentions  of  casting  reflections 
upon  the  place  of  Marian's  birth.  Like  Josh  she  had 
detected  something  familiar  in  the  young  girl's  face, 
and  twice  she  had  swept  her  hand  across  her  eyes  to 
clear  away  the  mist  and  see  if  possible  what  it  was 
which  puzzled  her  so  much. 

"  I  was  born  a  great  many  miles  from  here,"  said 
Marian,  and  ere  Hetty  could  reply,  Josh,  whose  gaze 
had  all  the  time  been  riveted  upon  her,  stuttered  out, 
"Sh-sh-she  is-s-s-s  like  M-m-m-Miss  Marian." 

Yes,  this  was  the  likeness  they  had  seen,  but  Marian 
would  rather  the  first  recognition  should  come  from 
another  source,  and  she  hastened  to  reply,  "  Oh,  Mrs. 
Raymond,  you  mean.  Alice  noticed  it  when  I  first 
went  to  Riverside.  You  suppose  your  young  mistress 
dead,  do  yon  not?" 

Instantly  Dinah's  woolen  apron  ^vas  called  into  use, 
while  she  said,  "  Yes,  poor  dear  lainbj  if  thar's  any 
truth  in  them  Scripter  savin's,  she's  a  burniir  and  a 
shining  light  in  de  kingdom  come."  And  the  old  ne- 
gre&s  launched  forth  into  a  long  eulogy,  in  the  midst 
of  which  Frederic  appeared  in  quest  of  Marian. 

"  1  am  listening  to  praises  of  your  wife,"  she  said, 
and  there  was  a  mischievous  triumph  in  her  eye  as  she 


REDSTONE   HALL.  343 

paw  how  his  forehead  flushed,  for  he  was  beginning  to 
be  slightly  annoyed  when  she,  as  she  often  did,  allud- 
ed to  his  wife. 

Why  need  she  thrust  that  memory  continually  upon 
him?'  Was  it  not  enough  for  him  to  know  that  some- 
where in  the  world  there  was  a  wife,  and  that  he  would 
rather  hear  any  one  else  speak  of  her  than  the  bright- 
haired  Marian  Grey. 

"  Dinah  can  be  very  eloquent  at  times,"  he  said, 
"  but  come  with  me  to  Alice.  She  has  been  sadly 
frightened  on  your  account,"  and  he  led  the  way  to  the 
piazza,  where  the  blind  girl  was  waiting  for  them. 

Breakfast  being  over,  Marian  and  Alice  sought  the 
parlor,  where,  instead  of  the  old  fashioned  instrument 
which  the  former  remembered  as  standing  there,  she 
found  a  new  and  beautifully  carved  piano. 

"Frederic  ordered  this  on  purpose  to  please  you," 
whispered  Alice.  "  He  said  it  was  a  shame  for  you  to 
play  on  the  other  rattling  thing." 

This  was  sufficient  to  call  out  Marian's  wildest  strains, 
and  as  a  matter  of  course  the  entire  band  of  servants 
gathered  about  the  door  to  listen  just  as  they  once  had 
done  when  the  performer  was  Isabel.  As  was  quite 
natural,  they  yielded  their  preference  to  the  last  comer, 
old  Hetty  acknowledging  that  even  "Miss  Beatrice 
couldn't  beat  that." 

It  would  seem  that  Marian  Grey  was  destined  to 
take  till  hearts  by  storm,  for  ere  the  day  was  done  her 
virtues  had  been  discussed  in  the  kitchen  and  by  the 
cabin  tire,  while  even  the  gallant  Josh,  at  his  work  in 
the  hemp- ti eld,  attempted  a  song,  which  he  meant  to 
be  laudatory  of  her  charms,  but  as  he  was  somewhat 
lacking  in  poetical  talent,  his  music  ran  finally  into 
the  well  known  ballad  of  "  Mary  Ann,"  which  suited 
his  purpose  quite  as  well. 

Meantime,  Marian,  stealing  away  from  Alice,  quietly 
explored  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  house,  opening 
first  the  little  box  where  she  once  had  kept  her  mother's 
hair.  It  was  just  as  she  had  left  it,  and  kissing  it  rev- 


344  EEDSTOSE    HALT.. 

erently  she  placed  it  by  the  side  of  her  silken  locks,  to 
see  how  they  compared.  It  might  be  that  the  tress 
of  the  dead  had  faded  somewhat,  for  there  was  cer- 
tainly a  richer,  darker  tinge  to  her  own  wavy  hair,  and 
bowing  her  head  upon  the  bureau  she  dropped  tears 
of  thankfulness  that  her  childhood's  prayer  had  been 
more  than  answered.  The  library  was  visited  next,  and 
she  seated  herself  again  in  the  chair  where  she  had  sat 
•when  penning  her  last  farewell  to  Frederic.  Where 
was  that  letter  now  ?  She  wished  that  she  could  see 
it,  though  she  did  not  care  to  read  it,  and  without  any 
expectation  of  finding  it  she  pressed  what  she  knew 
was  the  secret  spring  to  a  private  drawer.  It  yielded 
to  her  touch — the  drawer  came  open,  and  there  before 
her  lay  the  letter — her  letter — she  knew  it  by  its  su- 
perscription, and  by  its  tear-stained,  soiled  appearance. 
She  had  wept  oyer  it  herself,  but  she  knew  fall  well 
her  tears  alone  had  never  blurred  and  blotted  it  liko 
this.  Frederic's  had  mingled  with  them,  and  her 
heart  was  trembling  with  joy  when  another  object 
caught  her  eye  and  quickened  her  rapid  pulsations. 
Her  glove  !  the  little  black  kid  glove  she  had  dropped 
upon  the  bridge  was  there,  wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  pa- 
per, and  with  it  the  handkerchief! 

"  Frederic  has  saved  them  all,"  she  whispered,  shud- 
dering involuntarily,  for  it  seemed  almost  like  looking 
into  the  grave,  where  he  had  buried  these  sad  remem- 
brances of  her.  He  had  preserved  them  carefully,  she 
thought,  and  she  continued  her  investigation,  coming 
at  last  upon  a  daguerreotype  of  herself,  taken  when 
she  was  just  fifteen. 

"  Oh,  horror !"  she  cried,  and  sinking  back  in  her 
chair,  she  laughed  until  the  tears  ran  at  the  forlorn  lit- 
tle face  which  looked  upon  her  so  demurely  from  the 
casing.  "  Frederic  must  enjoy  looking  at  you  vastly, 
and  thinking  you  are  his  wife,"  she  said,  and  she  felt  a 
thrill  of  pride  in  knowing  that  Marian  Grey  bore 
scarcely  the  slightest  resemblance  to  that  daguerreo- 
type. 


BEDSTONE    HALL.  345 

There  was  a  similarity  in  the  features  and  in  the 
way  the  hair  grew  around  tlie  forehead,  while  the  eyes 
were  really  alike.  But  the  likeness  extended  no  fur- 
ther, and  she  did  not  wonder  that  none,  save  Bruno, 
had  recognized  her.  Returning  the  picture  to  its 
place,  she  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Frederic 
came  in,  appearing  somewhat  surprised  to  find  her 
there,  sitting  in  his  chair  as  if  she  liad  a  perfect  right 
BO  to  do.  At  tirst  she  was  too  much  confused  to  apolo- 
gize, hut  she  managed  at  last  to  say  : 

*•  This  cozy  room  attracted  me,  and  I  took  the  lib- 
erty to  enter.  You  have  a  very  fine  library,  I  think  ; 
some  of  the  books  must  have  been  your  father's." 

It  was  the  books,  of  course,  which  she  came  to  see, 
and  sitting  do\vn  opposite  to  her  Frederic  talked  with 
her  about  them  until  she  chanced  to  spy  a  portrait, 
put  away  behind  the  ponderous  sofa,  with  its  face 
turned  to  the  wall. 

"  Whose  is  it?"  she  asked,  directing  Frederic's  atten- 
tion to  it.  "Whose  is  it,  and  why  is  it  hidden  there?" 

Instantly  the  young  man's  face  grew  dark,  and  Ma- 
rian trembled  beneath  the  glance  he  bent  upon  her. 
Then  the  cold,  hard  look  passed  away,  and  he  re- 
plied : 

"  It  is  an  unfinished  portrait  of  Mrs.  Raymond, 
taken  from  a  daguerreotype  of  her  when  she 'was  only 
fifteen.  But  the  artist  did  not  understand  his  business, 
and  it  looks  even  worse  than  the  original." 

This  last  was  spoken  bitterly,  and  Marian  felt  the 
hot  blood  rising  to  her  cheeks. 

"I  never  even  told  Alice  of  it,"  he  continued,  "  but 
put  it  away  in  .here,  where  I  hide  all  my  secrets." 

He  glanced  at  the  private  drawer — so  did  Marian  J 
l>ut  she  was  too  intent  upon  seeing  a  portrait  which 
could  look  worse  than  the  daguerreotype  to  heed 
aught  else,  and  she  said,  entreatingly,  a  Oh,  Mr.  Ray- 
mond, please  let  me  see  it,  won't  you  ?  I  lived  in  New 
York  a  long  time,  you  know,  and  perhaps  I  may  have 
met  her,  or  even  known  her  under  some  other  name  ? 

15* 


3-16  BEDSTONE   HALL. 

May  I  see  it?"  and  she  was  advancing  toward  the 
sofa,  when  Frederic  seized  both  her  hands,  and  holding 
them  in  his,  said,  half  hesitatingly,  half  mournfully : 
"  Miss  Grey,  you  must  exquse  me  for  refusing  your 
request.  Poor  Marian  was  far  from  being  handsome, 
nay,  I  sometimes  thought  her  positively  ugly.  She  is 
certainly  so  in  the  portrait,  and  a  creature  as  highly 
gifted  with  beauty  as  you,  might  laugh  at  her  plain 
features,  but  if  you  did — "  He  paused  a  moment,  and 
Marian's  eyelashes  fell  beneath  his  steady  gaze — "  And 
if  you  did/'  he  continued,  "I  never  could  like  you 
again,  for  she  was  my  wife,  and  as  such  must  be 
respected." 

Marian  could  not  tell  why  it  was.  but  Frederic's 
words  and  manner  affected  her  painfully.  She  half 
feared  she  had  offended  him  by  her  eagerness  to  see  the 
portrait,  while  mingled  with  this  was  a  strange  feeling 
of  pity  for  poor,  plain  Marian  Liudsey,  as  she  proba- 
bly looked  upon  the  canvas,  and  a  deep  respect  for 
Frederic,  who  would,  if  possible,  protect  her  from 
even  the  semblance  of  insult.  Her  heart  was  already 
full,  and,  releasing  her  hands  from  Frederic's,  she  re- 
sumed her  seat,  and  leaning  her  head  upon  the  writing- 
desk,  burst  into  tears,  while  Frederic  paced  the  room, 
wondering  what,  under  the  circumstances,  he  was  ex- 
pected to  do.  He  knew  just  how  to  soothe  Alice,  but 
Marian  Grey  was  a  different  individual.  He  could 
not  take  her  in  his  lap  and  kiss  away  her  tears,  but  he 
could  at  least  spealk  to  her;  and  he  did  at  last,  laying 
his  hand  as  near  the  little  white  one  grasping  the  table 
edge  as  he  dared,  and  saying,  very  gently  : 

"  If  I  spoke  harshly  to  you,  Miss  Grey,  I  am  sorry- 
very  sorry  ;  I  really  did  not  intend  to  make  you  cry. 
I  only  felt  that  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  you,  of  all 
others,  laugh  at  ray  poor  Marian,  and  so  refused  your 
request.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

And  by  some  chance,  as  he  looked  another  way,  his 
hand  did  touch  hers,  and  held  it,  too  !  He  did  not 
think  that  an  insult  to  the  portrait  at  all,  nor  yet  of 


REDSTONE   HALL.  34.7 

the  supposed  original ;  for  tnere  was  something  in  the 
way  the  snowy  lingers  twined  themselves  round  his, 
which  drove  all  other  ideas  from  his  mind,  and  for  one 
brief  instant  he  was  supremely  happy. 

From  the  first  he  had  thought  of  Marian  Grey  as  a 
sweet,  beautiful  young  creature,  whom  some  mar 
would  one  day  delight  to  call  his  own ;  but  the  possi- 
bility of  loving  her  himself  had  never  occurred  to  him 
until  now,  when,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  the  convic- 
tion burst  upon  him  that,  spite  of  Marian  Lindsey — • 
spite  of  his  marriage  vowx — spite  of  the  humble  origin 
which  would  once  have  shocked  his  pride — and  spite 
of  everything,  Marian  Grey  had  won  a  place  in  his 
heart  from  which  he  must  dislodge  her.  But,  how  ? 
He  could  not  send  her  away,  for  she  seemed  a  part  of 
himself,  and  he  could  not  live  without  her ;  but  he 
would  stifle  his  new-born  love,  he  said,  and  as  the  best 
means  of  doing  so,  he  would  talk  to  her  often  of  his 
wife  as  a  person  who  certainly  had  an  existence,  and 
would  some  day  come  back  to  him ;  so,  when  Marian 
replied  :  "  I  feared  you  were  angry  with  me,  Mr.  Ray- 
mond ;  I  would  not  have  asked  to  see  the  portrait  had 
I  supposed  you  really  cared,"  he  drew  his  chair  at  a 
respectful  distance  and  said :  "  I  cannot  explain  the 
matter  to  you,  but  if  you  knew  the  whole  sad  story  of 
my  marriage,  and  the  circumstances  which  led  to  it, 
you  would  not  wonder  that  I  am  somewhat  sensitive 
upon  the  subject.  I  used  to  think  beauty  the  princi- 

Eal  thing  I  should  require  in  a  wife,  but  poor  Marian 
ad  none  of  that,  and  were  you  to  see  the  wretched 
likeness,  you  would  receive  altogether  too  unfavorable 
an  impression  of  her ;  for,  notwithstanding  her  plain 
face,  she  was  far  too  good  for  me." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  was  Marian's  eager  ex« 
clamation,  while  close  behind  it  was  the  secret  strug- 
gling hard  to  escape,  but  she  forced  it  back,  until  such 
time  as  she  should  be  convinced  that  Frederic  loved 
her  as  Marian  Grey,  and  would  hail  with  delight  the 
news  that  she  was  indeed  his  wife. 


348  REDSTONE   HALL. 

He  seemed  surprised  at  her  question,  but  lie  answer- 
ed, unhesitatingly: 

"  Yes  ;  far  too  good  for  me." 

"  And  do  you.  really  wish  to  find  her?"  was  Marian's 
next  question,  which  brought  a  flush  to  Frederic's  face, 
and  caused  him  to  hesitate  a  little  ere  he  replied. 

Yesterday  he  would  have  said  Yes,  at  once,  but  since 
coming  into  that  library  he  had  discovered  that  the 
finding  of  his  wife  would  be  less  desirable  than  before. 
But  it  should  not  be  so.  He  would  crush  every 
thought  or  feeling  which  detracted  in  the  least  from 
his  late  interest  in  Marian  Lindsey,  and  with  a  great 
effort  he  said : 

"  I  really  wish  to  find  her  ;"  adding,  as  he  saw  a  pe- 
culiar expression  flit  over  Marian's  face  ;  "  Wouldn't 
you,  too,  be  better  pleased  if  Bedstone  Hall  had  a  mis- 
tress ?" 

"  Yes,  provided  that  mistress  were  your  wife,  Marian 
Lindsey,''  was  the  ready  answer ;  and,  looking  into  her 
face,  Frederic  was  conscious  of  an  uneasy  sensation, 
for  Miss  Grey's  words  would  indicate  that  the  presence 
of  his  wife  would  give  her  real  pleasure. 

Of  course,  then,  she  did  not  care  for  him,  as  he  cared 
for  her  ;  and  why  should  she  ?  He  asked  himself  this 
question  many  a  time  after  the  chair  opposite  him  was 
vacant,  and  she  had  left  him  there  alone.  Why  should 
ehe,  when  she  came  to  him  with  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  already  bound  to  another.  She  might  not  hare 
liked  him  perhaps  had  he  been  free,  though,  in  that 
case,  he  could  have  won  her  love,  and  compelled  her 
to  forget  the  man  who  did  not  care  for  her.  Taking 
the  high-backed  chair  she  had  just  vacated,  he  rested 
his  elbow  upon  the  table,  and  tried  to  fancy  that  Ma- 
rian Lindsey  had  never  crossed  his  path,  and  Marian 
Grey  had  never  loved  another.  It  was  a  pleasant  pic- 
ture he  drew  of  himself  were  Marian  Grey  his  wife, 
and  his  heart  fairly  bounded  as  he  thought  of  her  steal- 
ing to  his  side,  and  placing  upon  his  arm  those  little 
Boi't  white  hands  of  hers,  while  her  blue  eyes  looked 


BEDSTONE   HALL.  .  319 

into  his  own,  and  her  rose-bud  lips  called  him  "  Hus- 
band !"  and,  as  he  thought,  it  seemed  to  him  more 
and  more  that  it  must  one  day  be  so.  She  \vould  be 
his  at  last,  and  the  sun  of  his  domestic  bliss  would 
shine  upon  him  all  the  brighter  for  the  dreary  darkness 
which  had  overshadowed  him  so  long.  From  this 
dream  of  happiness  there  came  ere  long  a  waking,  and 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands  he  moaned  aloud,  "  Itr 
cannot  be,  and  the  hardest  part  of  all  to  bear  is  the 
wretched  thought  that  but  for  my  dastardly,  unmanly 
act,  it  might,  perhaps,  have  been — but  now,  never ! 
never !  Oh,  Marian  Grey !  Marian  Grey !  I  would 
that  we  had  never  met !" 

"Frederic,  didn't  you  hear  me  coming?  I  made  a 
heap  of  noise,"  said  a  voice  close  to  his  side,  and 
Alice's  arm  was  thrown  across  his  neck. 

She  had  heard  all  he  was  saying,  but  she  did  not 
comprehend  it  until  he  muttered  the  name  of  Marian 
Grey,  and  then  the  truth  flashed  upon  her. 

"Poor  Frederic,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "I  pity  you 
so  much,  for  though  it  is  wicked,  I  am  sure  you  can- 
not help  it." 

"  Help  what  ?"  he  asked,  rather  impatiently,  for  this 
one  secret  lie  hoped  to  bury  from  the  whole  world,  but 
the  blind  girl  had  discovered  it,  and  she  answered  un- 
hesitatingly : 

"  Can't  help  loving  Marian  Grey.  I've  been  fearful 
you  would,"  she  continued,  as  he  made  no  reply.  "  I 
did  not  see  how  you  could  well  help  it,  either,  she  is  so 
beautiful  and  good,  and  every  night  I  pray  that  if  our 
own  Marian  is  really  dead  God  will  let  us  know." 

This  was  an  entire  change  in  Alice.  Hitherto  she  had 
pleaded  a  living  Marian — now  she  suggested  one  de* 
ceased,  but  Frederic  repelled  the  'thought  at  once. 

"  Marian  was  not  dead,"  he  said,  "  and  though  he 
admired  Miss  Grey,  he  had  no  right  to  love  her.  He 
didn't  intend  to,  either,  and  if  Alice  had  discovered 
anything,  he  trusted  she  would  forget  it." 

And  this  was  all  the  satisfaction  he  would  give  the 


S50  BEDSTONE   HALL. 

little  girl,  who,  feeling  that  he  would  rather  be  alone, 
turned  away,  leaving  him  again  with  his  unhappy 
thoughts. 

That  night  he  joined  the  young  girls  in  the  parlor 
and  compelled  himself  to  listen  while  Marian  made  the 
old  walls  echo  with  her  ringing,  merry  music.  But 
he  would  not  look  at  her,  nor  watch  her  snowy  fingers 
sweeping  over  the  keys,  lest  they  should  make  worse 
havoc  with  his  heart-strings  than  they  had  already 
done.  At  an  early  hour  he  sought  his  chamber  where  the 
livelong  night  he  fought  manfully  with  the  love  which, 
now  that  lie  acknowledged  its  existence,  grew  rapidly  in 
intensity  and  strength.  It  was  not  like  the  love  he  had 
felt  for  Isabel — it  was  deeper,  purer,  more  absorbing, 
and  what  was  stranger  far  than  all,  he  could  not  feel 
that  it  was  wicked,  and  he  trembled  when  he  thought 
how  hardened  he  had  become. 

The  next  day,  which  was  the  Sabbath,  he  determin- 
ed to  see  as  little  of  Marian  as  possible,  but  when  at 
the  breakfast  table  she  asked  him  in  her  usual  frank, 
open-hearted  way  to  go  with  her  to  church,  he  could 
not  refuse,  and  he  went,  feeling  a  glow  of  pride  at  the 
sensation  he  knew  she  was  creating,  and  wondering 
why  she  should  be  so  excited. 

"  I  cannot  keep  the  secret  much  longer,"  Marian 
thought,  as  she  looked  upon  the  familiar  faces  of^her 
friends,  and  longed  to  hear  them  call  her  by  her  real 
name.  "I  will  at  least  tell  Alice  who  I  am,  and  if  she 
can  convince  me  that  Frederic  would  be  glad,  I  will 
perhaps  explain  to  him." 

When  church  was  out,  Mrs.  Rivers,  who  still  lived 
at  her  father's,  pressed  forward  for  an  introduction, 
and  after  it  was  over,  whispered  a  few  words  to  Fred- 
eric, who  replied,  "  Not  in  the  least,"  so  decidedly  that 
Marian  heard  him,  and  wondered  what  Agnes'  remark 
could  have  been.  She  was  not  long  left  in  doubt,  for 
as  they  were  riding  home,  Frederic  turned  to  her  and 
said  :  "  Mrs.  Rivers  thinks  you  look  like  my  wife." 

Marian's  cheeks  were  scarlet,  as  she  replied  : 


BEDSTONE   HALL.  351 

"  Josh  and  Hefty  thought  so,  too,  and  it  is  possible 
there  mav  be  a  resemblance," 

"Not  the  slightest,"  returned  Frederic,  half  vexed 
thai:  any  one  should  presume  to  liken  the  beautiful  girl 
at  his  side  to  one  as  plain  as  he  had  always  considered 
Marian  Lindsey  to  be. 

Leaning  back  in  the  carriage,  he  relapsed  into  a 
thoughtful  mood,  which  was  interrupted  once  by  Ma- 
rian's asking  "if  he  believed  he  should  know  his  wife 
in  case  he  met  her  accidentally?" 

"Know  her?  Yes — from  all  the  world!"  was  the 
hasty  answer;  and,  wrapping  his  shawl  still  closer 
about  him,  Frederic  did  not  speak  again  until  they 
stopped  at  their  own  door. 

That  night,  as  Marian  sat  with  Alice  in  their  cham- 
ber, she  said  to  the  little  girl : 

"  If  you  could  have  any  wish  gratified  which  you 
chose  to  make,  what  would  it  be  ?" 

For  an  instant  Alice  hesitated — then  her  eyes  filled 
with  teats,  and,  and  winding  her  arms  around  her 
teacher's  neck,  she  whispered  : 

"  At  first  I  thought  Fd  rather  have  my  sight — but 
only  for  a  moment — and  then  I  wished,  if  Marian  were 
not  dead,  she  would  come  back  to  us,  for  I'm  afraid 
Frederic  is  getting  bad  again,  though  he  cannot  help 
it,  I'm  sure." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  Marian  asked,  and  Alice  re- 
plied : 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  Can't  you  guess  ?  Don't  you 
hear  it  in  his  voice  when  he  speaks  to  you?" 

Marian  made  no  response,  and  Alice  continued : 

"Frederic  seems  determined  to  love  everybody  bet- 
ter than  Marian,  and  though  I  love  you  more  than  I 
can  tell,  I  want  her  to  come  back  so  much." 

"  And  if  you  knew  she  were  coming,  when  would 
you  rather  it  should  be?"  asked  Marian,  and  Alice 
replied : 

*'  Now — to-night, ;  but  as  that  is  impossible,  I'd  be 
satisfied  with  Christmas.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  I'd  rather 


352  REDSTONE   HALL. 

it  w:>uld  be  then  ;  I  should  call  her  our  Christmas  Gift, 
and  it  would  be  the  dearest,  sweetest  one  that  I  could 
have." 

''Darling  Alice,"  thought  Marian,  "your  wish  shall 
be  gratified." 

And,  kissing  the  blind  girl  affectionately,  she  re- 
polved  that  on  the  coming  Christmas,  one  at  least  of 
the  inmates  of  Redstone  II all  should  know  that  Marian 
Grey  was  only  another  name  for  the  runaway  Marian 
Lindsey. 


CHAPTER  XXYIL 

TELLDTO    ALICE. 

ONE  by  one  the  bright  November  days  went,  by  and 
the  hazy  Indian  Summer  light  faded  from  the  Ken- 
tucky hills,  where  now  the  December  sun  was  shining 
cold  and  clear.  And  as  the  weeks  passed  away,  there 
hung  over  Redstone  Hall  a  dark,  portentous  cloud, 
and  they  who  had  waited  so  eagerly  the  coming  of  the 
holidays  trembled  lest  the  merry  Christmas  song 
should  prove  a  funeral  dirge  for  the  pet  »nd  darling  of 
them  all.  Alice  was  dying,  so  the  physician  said, 
while  Dinah,  too,  had  prophesied  that  ere  the  New 
Year  came  the  eyes  which  never  in  this  world  had 
looked  upon  the  light  would  be  opened  to  the  glories 
of  the  better  land. 

For  many  weary  days  and  nights  the  fever  flame 
had  burned  in  the  young  girl's  veins,  but  it  had  left 
her  now,  and  like  a  fragile  lily  she  iay  among  her  pil- 
lows, talking  of  Heaven  and  the  grave  as  something 
very  near  to  her.  Noiselessly  Marian  trod  across  the 
floor,  holding  back  her  breath  and  speaking  in  soft 
whispers,  lest  she  should  disturb  the  little  sufferer 
whose  side  she  never  for  a  moment  left  except  to  take 
the  rest  she  absolutely  needed.  Frederic,  too,  often 
shared  her  vigils,  feeling  almost  as  anxious  for  one 
as  for  the  other.  Both  were  very  dear  to  him,  and 
Marian,  as  she  witnessed  his  tender  care  of  Alice,  and 
his  anxiety  for  herself  lest  her  stength  should  be  over- 
tasked, felt  more  aud  more  that  he  was  worthy  of  her 
love.  Alice,  too,  appreciated  his  goodness,  as  she  had 


354  TELLING   ALICE. 

never  done  before,  and  once  when  he  sat  alone  with 
her,  and  Marian  was  asleep,  she  passed  her  hand  ca- 
ressingly over  his  face  and  said  : 

"Dear  Frederic,  you  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  that 
I  am  sure  God  has  some  good  in  store  for  you." 

Then  as  she  remembered  what  would  probably  be 
the  greatest  good  to  him,  she  continued,  "I  know 
what's  in  your  heart,  and  I  pity  you  so  much,  but 
there  is  light  ahead  ;  I've  thought  strange  things,  and 
dreamed  strange  dreams  since  I  lay  here  so  sick, 
and  as  I  once  was  certain  Marian  was  alive,  so  now  I'm 
almost  certain  that  she's  dead." 

"  Hush,  Alice,  hush,"  said  Frederic,  laying  his  head 
upon  the  pillow  beside  her,  but  Alice  did  not  heed 
him,  and  she  continued — 

"I  never  saw  her  in  this  world,  and  maybe  I  shan't 
know  her  right  away,  though  next  to  mother,  I  reckon 
she'll  be  the  first  to  welcome  me  to  Heaven,  if  she's 
there,  and  I  know  she  is,  or  we  should  have  heard 
from  her.  I  shall  tell  her  of  her  old  home,  Frederic  ;  tell 
her  how  we  mourned  for  her  when  we  thought  that 
she  was  dead.  I  don't  know  what  it  was  that  made 
her  go  away,  but  I  shall  tell  her  you  repented  of  the 
act,  and  'how  you  looked  for  her  so  long,  and  that  if 
you  had  found  her  you  would  have  loved  her,  sure. 
That  will  not  be  a  lie,  will  it,  Frederic?" 

"  No,  darling,  no,"  was  the  faintly  spoken  answer, 
and  Alice  continued : 

"Then,  when  I  have  explained  all,  I'll  steal  away 
from  Heaven,  just  long  enough  to  come  and  tell  you 
she  is  there.  You'll  be  in  the  library,  maybe,  and 
I  reckon  'twill  be  dark,  though  if  you'd  any  ra- 
ther, I'll  come  in  the  daytime,  and  when  you  feel 
there's  somebody  near,  somebody  you  can't  see,  you 
may  know  that  it  is  me  come  to  say  that  you  are  free 
to  love  the  other  Marian." 

"  Don't,  Alice,  don't,"  said  Frederic,  for  it  made  hia 
heart  bleed  afresh  to  hear  her  talk  of  what  he  had  no 
hope  would  ever  be. 


TELLING   ALICE.  355 

But  Alice's  faith  was  stronger,  and  to  Marian  Grey 
she  sometimes  talked  in  a  similar  strain,  saying  "  she 
knew  she  should  meet  the  other  one  in  Heaven,"  and 
Marian,  while  listening  to  her,  felt  that  she  must  un- 
deceive her.  "It  may  possibly  make  her  better,"  she 
thought,  and  when,  at  last,  the  Christmas  eve  had 
come,  and  it  was  her  turn  to  watch  that  night,  she  de- 
termined to  tell  her,  if  she  fancied  that  she  had 
strength  to  bear  it,  One  by  one,  the  family  servants 
retired,  and  when  at  last  they  were  alone,  Marian 
drew  her  chair  close  beside  the  bed,  wondering  how 
she  should  commence,  and  what  effect  it  would  have 
upon  the  little  girl,  who  erelong  awoke,  and  said  to 
her: 

"  I've  been  dreaming  of  Marian,  and  I  thought  she 
looked  like  you  do — but  she  don't  of  course;  and  I 
wonder  how  I'll  know  her  from  my  mother,  for  she,  too, 
was  young  when  she  died.  If  it  were  you,  Miss  Grey,  I 
could  tell  you  so  easily,  for  I  should  look  among  the 
brightest  angels  there,  and  the  one  who  sang  the  sweet- 
est song  and  had  the  fairest  face,  would  certainly  be 
Marian  Grey  :  but  the  other  Marian — how  shall  I  know 
her— think?" 

Leaning  forward  so  that  her  hot  cheek  touched  the 
pale  one  of  the  sick  girl,  Marian  said  : 

"  Wouldn't  you  know  her  by  her  voice  ?" 

"  I'm  afraki  not,"  answered  Alice  ;  "  I  thought  you 
were  she  at  first  when  I  heard  you  speak." 

"Plow  is  it  now,  darling?"  Marian  asked,  in  a  voice 
so  tremulous  that  Alice  started,  and  her  white  face 
flushed  as  she  replied  :  "  You  are  nut  like  her  now,  ex- 
cept at  times,  and  then — it's  all  so  queer.  There's  a 
mystery  about  you,  Miss  Grey — and  seems  sometimes 
just  like  I  didn't  know  what  to  think — you  puzzle  me 
so  !" 

"  Shall  I  tell  you,  Alice  ?  Have  you  strength  to  hoar 
who  and  what  I  am  ?"  Marian  asked  ;  and  Alice  an- 
swered eagerly; 

«  Yes— tell  me— do  ?" 


356  TELLING    ALICE. 

"  And  you'll  promise  not  to  faint,  nor  scream,  nor 
reveal  it  to  anybody,  unless  I  say  you  may  ?" 

"  It  must  be  something  terrible  to  make  me  i'aint  or 
scream !" 

"  Not  terrible,  dearest,  but  strange  !"  and  sitting 
down  upon  the  bed,  Marian  wound  her  arm  around  the 
little  girl. 

It  was  a  hazardous  thing  the  telling  that  secret  then, 
but  Marian  did  not  realize  what  she  was  doing,  and  in 
as  calm  a  voice  as  she  could  command,  she  began  : 

"  People  call  me  Marian  Grey,  but  that  is  not  my 
name !" 

"  Not  Marian  Grey  !"  and  the  brown  eyes  flashed 
wonderingly.  "Who  are  you,  then,  Marian  what?" 

Marian  did  not  reply  to  this  question,  but  said  in- 
stead :  "I  had  seen  you  before  that  night  at  Riverside." 

"Seen  me  where?"  and  the  little  fingers  trembled, 
with  an  indefinable  dread  of  the  shock  which  she  in- 
stinctively felt  was  waiting  for  her. 

"I  had  seen  you  many  times,"  said  Marian,  "and  that 
is  why  my  voice  is  familiar.  Put  ;\our  hand  upon  my 
face  again,  and  maybe  you  will  know  it." 

"  I  can?t,  I  can't !  you  frighten  me  so  1"  gasped  Alice, 
and  Marian  continued  : 

"  I  must  have  changed  much,  for  they  who  used  to 
know  me  have  never  suspected  that  I  am  in  their 
midst  again — none  but  Bruno.  Do  }rou  remember  my 
power  over  him  ?  Bruno  and  I  were  playmates  to- 
gether." 

Marian  paused  and  gazed  earnestly  at  the  child,  who 
lay  panting  in  her  arms,  her  face  upturned  and  the 
blind  eyes  fixed  upon  hers  with  an  intensity  she  had 
never  before  seen  equalled.  In  the  deep  stillness  of 
the  room  she  could  hear  the  loud  beating  of  Alice's 
heart,  and  see  the  bed-clothes  rise  and  fall  with  every 
throb. 

"  Alice,"  she  said  at  last,  "  don't  you  know  me  now  ?' 
and  in  her  voice  there  was  a  world  of  yearning  tender- 
'  ness  and  love. 


TELLING    ALICE.  357 

"  Yes"  and  over  the  marble  face  there  shone  a  smile 
of  almost  seraphic  sweetness.  "Yon  are  Marian — • 
my  Marian — Frederic's  Marian — Dinah's  -Marian — 
All  of  us  Marian  /"  and  with  a  low.  hysterical  cry  the 
blind  girl  crept  close  to  the  bosom  of  her  long  lost 
friend. 

Stretching  out  her  feeble  arms  she  wound  them 
round  Marian's  neck,  and  raising  herself  upon  her  el- 
bow, kissed  her  lips,  her  cheek,  her  forehead,  her  hair, 
whispering  all  the  time,  "Blessed  Marian — precious 
Marian — beautiful  Marian — our  Marian — Frederic's, 
and  mine,  and  everybody's.  Oh,  I  don't  want,  to  go  to 
heaven  now  :  I'd  rather  stay  with  you.  Call  him — call 
Frederic,  quick,  and  tell  him  ?  Why  haven't,  you  told 
him  before  ?  Ho,  Frederic,  come  here  !"  and  the  fee- 
ble voice  raised  to  its  highest  pitch,  went  ringing 
through  the  room  and  penetrated  even  to  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber,  where,  since  Alice's  illness,  Frederic  had 
slept. 

"  Alice,"  said  Marian,  "  if  you  love  me,  you  will  not 
tell  him  now.  I  am  not  ready  yet." 

"  What  if  I  should  die  ?"  Alice  asked,  and  Marian 
replied  : 

"  You  won't  die.  I  almost  know  you  won't.  Prom- 
ise, Alice,  promise,"  she  continued,  as  she  heard  Fred- 
eric's step  in  the  hall  vithout. 

"How  can  I — how  can  I?  It  will  choke  me  to 
death !"  was  Alice's  answer,  and  the  next  moment 
Frederic  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

"  What  is  it,  Miss  Grey  ?"  he  asked.  "  Didn't  you 
call  ?" 

Alice  is  rather  excited,  that's  all."  said  Marian, 
'•  and  you  can  go  back.  We  do  not  wish  to  disturb 
you." 

"  Frederic,"  came  a  faint  whisper  from  the  bedside, 
and  knowing  that  farther  remonstrance  was  useless, 
Marian  stood  like  a  rock,  while  Frederic  advanced  to- 
ward the  child,  who  lay  with  her  head  thrown  back, 
the  great  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  and  the  great 


358  TELLING   ALICE. 

joy  of  what  she  had  heard,  shining  out  all  over  her 
little  face. 

"  Did  you  want  me,  birdie?"  he  asked,  but  ere  he 
had  ceased  speaking,  Marian  was  at  his  side. 

Alice  knew  that  she  was  there,  and  she  pressed  both 
hands  upon  her  lips  to  force  back  the  secret  she  had 
been  forbidden  to  divulge. 

"  Is  she  delirious  ?"  Frederic  asked,  and  shaking  her 
head,  Alice  whispered  :  "No,  no,  but  happy,  so  happy. 
Oh,  Frederic,  I  don't  want  to  die  !  Must  I  ?  It'  I  take 
a  heap  of  Doctor's  stuff,  will  I  get  well,  think?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Frederic,  his  suspicions  of  insanity 
rapidly  increasing. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  she  continued,  "  and  yours, 
too,  Miss  Grey." 

Both  were  extended,  and  joining  them  together  she 
said,  "  Love  her,  Frederic.  Love  her  all  you  want  to. 
You  may — you  may.  It  isn't  wicked.  Oh,  Marian, 
Marian." 

The  last  word  was  a  whisper,  and  a?  it  died  away, 
Marian  seized  Frederic's  arm,  and  said,  beseechingly: 
"  Please  leave  the  room,  Mr.  Raymond.  You  see  she 
is  excited,  and  I  can  quiut  her  best  alone.  Will  you 
go?" 

The  brown  eyes  looked  reproachfully  at  her  and  en- 
treatingly  at  him,  but  neither  heeded  the  expression, 
and  \v'th  a  feeling  that  he  scarcely  understood  what 
the  whole  proceeding  meant,  {fnd  why  he  had  been 
called  in  if  he  must  be  summarily  dismissed,  Frederic 
went  out,  leaving  Marian  alone  with  Alice. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  me  tell  him?"  the  latter  asked, 
and  Marian  replied,  "  I  shall  tell  him  by  and  by  : 
but  I  am  not  ready  yet,  and  you  must  not  betray  me." 

"  I'll  try,"  said  Alice,  "  but  'tis  so  hard.  I  had  to 
bite  my  tongue  to  keep  the  words  from  coming.  Where 
have  you  beeen  ?  Why  didn't  you  come  to  us  before. 
How  cume  you  so  beautiful — so  grand?"  Alice  asked, 
all  in  the  same  breath. 

But  Marian  absolutely  refused  to  answer  the  ques- 


TELLING    ALICE.  359 

tJon  until  she  had  become  quiet  and  been  refreshed 
with  sleep. 

"  All  in  good  time,  dearest,"  she  said,  "  but  you 
must  rest  now.  You  are  wearing  out  too  fast,  and  you 
know  you, do  not  want  to  die." 

This  was  the  right  chord  to  touch,  and  it  had  the  de- 
si  rod  effect. 

"  Let  me  ask  one  question,  and  say  one  thing,"  said 
Alice.  "  and  I  won't  talk  another  word  till  morning. 
When  you  are  ready  may  /  tell  Frederic,  if  I  ain't 
dead  ?"' 

"  Yes,  darling,"  was  the  ready  answer,  and  winding 
her  arms  round  Marian's  neck,  the  blind  girl  contin- 
ued :  "  Isn't  it  almost  morning  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"And  when  it  is,  won't  it  be  Christmas  day?" 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  asked  three  questions,  instead  of 
one." 

"  I  know — I  know ;  but.  what  I  want  to  say  is  this  : 
"I  wished  my  Christmas  gift  might  be  Marian,  and  it 
is.  Last  year  it  was  of  a  beautiful  little  pony,  but 
you  are  worth  ten  hundred  million  ponies.  Oh,  I'm 
so  glad — so  glad,"  and  on  the  childish  face  there  was  a 
look  of  perfect  happiness. 

Even  after  she  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  sleep  her 
lips  continued  to  move,  and  Marian  could  hear  the 
whispered  words:  u  Our  own  Marian — our  blessed 
Marian." 

The  excitement  was  too  much  for  Alice,  and  when 
next  morning  the  physician  came,  he  pronounced  her 
worse  than  she  had  been  the  previous  night. 

"  But  I  ain't  going  tc  die,"  said  Alice  resolutely  ; 
"  I  can't  die  now,"  and  it  was  this  very  determination 
on  her  part  which  did  more  to  save  her  life  than  all 
the  doctor's  drugs  or  Dinah's  wonderful  tears. 

For  many  days  she  seemed  hovering  between  life 
and  death,  while  Marian  never  for  a  moment  left  her, 
and  Alice  was  more  quiet  when  she  was  sitting  by, 
holding  her  feverish  hand  ;  she  seemed  to  have  lost  all 


360  TELLING   ALICE. 

•    .  x 

her  desire  to  tell,  for  she  never  made  any  attempt  so  to 
do,  though  she  persisted  in  calling  her  teacher  Marian, 
and  a  look  of  pain  always  flitted  over  her  face  when 
she  heard  her  addressed  as  Miss  Grey.  Sometimes  she 
would  start  up,  and  winding  her  arms  around  her  neck 
would  whisper  in  her  ear,  "  Are  you  Marian  for  sure 
— onr  Marian,  I  mean  ?"  * 

**  Yes,  Marian  Lindsey,  sure,"  would  be  the  answer, 
and  the  little  girl  would  fall  away  again  into  a  half 
unconscious  state,  a  smile  of  joy  wreathing  her  white 
lips,  and  an  expression  of  peace  resting  on  her  face. 

At  last,  just  as  the  New  Year's  morning  dawned,  she 
woke  from  a  deep,  unbroken  sleep,  and  Marian  and 
Frederic,  who  watched  beside  her,  knew  that  she  was 
saved.  There  were  weeks  of  convalescence,  and  Dinah 
often  wondered  at  Alice's  patience  in  staying  so  long 
and  willingly  in  the  chamber  where  she  had  suffered  so 
much.  But  to  Alice  that  sick  room  was  a  second  paradise 
and  Marian  the  bright  angel  whose  presence  made  all 
the  sunlight  of  her  life. 

Gradually  as  she  could  bear  it,  Marian  told  her  every- 
thing which  had  come  to  her  since  she  left  Itedstone 
Hall,  and  Alice's  eyes  grew  strangely  bright  when  she 
heard  that  the  bracelet  she  had  always  prized  so  much 
was  made  from  Marian's  hair,  and  that  Ben's  visit  to 
Kentucky  was  all  a  plan  of  his  to  see  if  Frederic  were 
married. — Greatly  was  she  shocked  when  she  heard  of 
the  letter  which  had  almost  taken  Marian's  life. 

"  Frederic  never  did  that  cruel  thing,"  she  knew. 

"  But  'twas  in  his  hand-writing,"  said  Marian,  "and 
until  the  mystery  is  cleared  away,  I  cannot  forgive 
him." 

For  a  long  time  Alice  sat  absorbed  in  thought,  then 
suddenly  starting  forward,  she  cried :  "  I  know,  Ma- 
rian. I  know  now,  Isabel  did  it.  I'm  sure  she  did.  I 
re.nember  it  all  so  plain. 

"  Isabel,"  repeated  Marian  :  "  how  could  she?  What 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,"  returned  Alice,  "  You  say  you  sent  it  a 


TELLING   ALICE.  361 

few  weeks  after  yon  went  away,  and  I  remember  so 
well  Frederic's  going  to  Lexington  one  day,  because 
that  was  the  time  it  came  to  me  that  you  were  not 
dead.  It  was  the  first  morning,  too,  that  Isabel  heard 
my  lessons,  and  she  scolded  because  I  didn't  remem- 
ber quick,  when  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  yon, 
and  my  heart  was  aching  so.  For  some  reason,!  can't 
tell  what,  I  showed  her  that  note  you.  left  for  me.  You 
remember  it ;  don't  you  ?  It  read  : 

"  Darling  Alice  !  Precious  Alice  :  If  my  heart  were 
not  already  broken,  it  would  break  in  leaving  you." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  remember,"  said  Marian,  and  Alice 
continued  : 

"  She  said  your  hand-writing  was  queer,  when  she 
gave  me  back  the  note.  That  evening,  Josh  came 
back  from  Frankfort  with  a  heap  of  letters  for  Fred- 
eric, and  one  of  them  I  know  was  from  you.  I  was 
standing  out  under  the  big  maple  tree  thinking  of  you, 
when  Isabel  came  and  asked  to  take  the  note  again, 
and  I  let  her  have  it.  Ever  so  long  after,  I  started  to 
go  into  the  library,  for  I  heard  somebody  rustling 
papers,  and  I  didn't  know  but  Dud  was  doing  mischief. 
Just  as  1  got  to  the  door,  I  heard  a  voice  like  Isabel's 
only  sounded  scared  like,  exclaim,  'It  is  from  her, 
but  he  shall  never  see  it,  never ;'  or  something  like 
that,  and  when  I  called  to  her  she  wouldn't  answer  me 
until  I  got  close  to  her,  and  then  she  laughed  as  if  she 
was  choked,  and  said  she  was  trying  to  frighten  me. 
Marian,  that  her  wa§  you,  and  that  he  was  Frederic. 
She  copied  his  writing,  and  sent  the  letter  back  be- 
cause she  wanted  Frederic  herself." 

"  Could  she  do  such  a  thing,"  said  Marian  more  to 
herself  than  to  Alice,  who  replied  : 

"She  can  do  anything  j  for  Dinah  says  she's  one  of 
the ,  I  reckon  that  I'll  skip  that  word  in  there,  be- 
cause it's  almost  swearing,  but  it  means  Satan's  unao- 
countdbles"  and  Alice's  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper  at 
what  she  fancied  to  be  profanity. 

Marian  could  understand  why  Isabel  should  do  such 
16 


362  TELLING    ALICE. 

a  wicked  thing  even  better  than  Alice,  and  after  re- 
flecting upon  it  for  a  time,  she  accepted  it  as  a  fact, 
and  even  suggested  the  possibility  of  Isabel's  having 
been  the  author  of  the  letter  from  Sarah  Green. 

"She  was!  she  was!"  cried  Alice,  starting  to  her 
feet!  "It's  just  like  her — for  she  thought  Frederic 
would  surely  want  to  marry  her  then.  I  know  she 
wrote  it,  and  managed  to  get  it  to  New  York  some- 
how ;"  and  as  is  often  the  case  poor  Isabel  was  com- 
Silled  to  bear  more  than  her  share  of  the  fraud,  for 
arian,  too,  believed  that  she  had  been  in  some  way 
implicated  with  the  letter  from  Sarah  Green. 

"And  I  may  tell  Frederic  now — mayn't  I?"  said 
Alice.  "  Suppose  we  set  to-morrow,  when  he's  in  the 
library  among  the  letters.  He'll  wonder  what  I'rn 
coming  in  there  for,  all  wrapped  up  in  shawls.  But 
he'll  know  plenty  quick,  for  it  will  be  just  like  me 
to  tell  it  all  at  once,  and  he  will  be  so  glad.  Don't 
you  wish  it  was  to-morrow  now?" 

Marian  could  not  say  she  did,  for  she  had  hoped  for 
more  decisive  demonstration  of  affection  on  Frederic's 
part  ere  she  revealed  herself  to  him,  but  Alice  was  so 
anxious,  and  had  waited  so  patiently,  that  she  at  last 
consented,  and  when  at  supper  she  met  Frederic  as 
usual,  she  was  conscious  of  a  different  feeling  towards 
him  than  she  had  ever  experienced  before.  He  seemed 
unusually  dejected,  though  exceedingly  kind  to  her, 
talking  but  little,  it  is  true,  but  evincing,  in  various 
ways,  the  interest  he  felt  in  her,  and  even  asking  her 
to  sit  with  him  awhile  ere  returning  to  Alice's  cham- 
ber. There  was  evidently  something  on  his  mind 
which  he  wished  to  say,  but  whatever  it  might  have 
been,  seven  o'clock  found  it  still  unsaid,  and  as  Alice 
retired  at  that  hour,  Marian  arose  to  go. 

"Must  you  leave  me?"  he  said,  rising  too,  and  ac 
companying  her  to  the  door.  "  Yes,  you  must!"  and 
Marian  little  guessed  the  meaning  these  three  words 
implied. 

She  only  felt  that  she  was  not  indifferent  to  him— 


TELLING   ALICE.  363 

that  the  story  Alice  was  to  tell  him  on  the  morrow 
would  be  received  with  a  quiet  kind  of  happiness  at 
least — that  he  would  not  bid  her  go  away  as  she  once 
had  done  before — and  with  the  little  blind  girl,  she, 
too,  began  to  think  the  morrow  would  never  come. 


CHAPTEK  XXVILL 

TELLING  FEEDEKIC. 

IT  was  midnight,  and  from  the  windows  of  the 
library  at  Redstone  Hall  there  shone  a  single  light,  its 
dim  rajs  falling  upon  the  haggard  face  of  the  weary 
man,  who,  since  parting  from  Marian  in  the  parlor,  had 
eat  there  just  as  he  was  sitting  now,  unmindful  of  the 
lapse  of  time — unmindful  of  every  thing  save  the  fierce 
battle  he  was  waging  with  himself.  Hour  by  hour 
— day  by  day — week  by  week,  had  his  love  for  Marian 
Grey  increased,  until  now  he  could  no  more  control  it 
than  he  could  stay  the  mighty  torrent  in  its  headlong 
course.  It  was  all  in  vain  that  he  kept  or  tried  to 
keep  Marian  Lindsey  continually  before  his  mind,  say- 
ing often  to  himself:  u  She  is  my  wife — she  is  alive, 
and  I  must  not  love  another." 

He  did  not  care  for  Marian  Lindsey.  He  did  not 
wish  to  find  her  now — he  almost  hoped  he  never 
should,  though  even  that  would  avail  him  nothing,  un- 
less he  knew  to  a  certainty  that  she  were  really  dead. 
Perhaps  he  never  could  know,  and  as  he  thought  of 
the  long,  dreary  years  in  which  he  must  live  on  with 
that  terrible  uncertainty  forever  haunting  him,  he 
pressed  his  hands  upon  his  burning  forehead  and  cried 
aloud  :  "  My  punishment  is  greater  than  I  can  bear. 
Oh,  Marian  Grey,  can  it  be  that  you,  who  might  have 
been  the  angel  of  my  life,  were  sent  to  avenge  the 
wrongs  of  that  other  Marian  ?" 

He  knew  it  was  wicked,  this  intense,  absorbing  pas- 
sion for  Marian  Grey,  but  he  could  not  1'eel  it  so,  and 


TELLING   FREDERIC.  365 

he  would  have  given  half  his  possessions  for  the  sake 
of  abandoning  himself  for  one  brief  hour  to  this  love 
— for  the  sake  of  seeing  her  eyes  of  blue  meet  Math  the 
look  he  had  so  often  fancied  her  giving  to  the  man  she 
loved.  And  she  loved  him  !  He  was  sure  of  it !  He 
saw  it  those  nights  when  he  watched  with  her  by  Al- 
ice's bedside  ;  he  had  seen  it  since  in  the  sudden  flush- 
ing of  her  cheek  and  the  falling  of  her  eyes  when  he 
approached.  And  it  was  this  discovery  which  prompt- 
ed him  to  the  act  he  meditated.  Not  both  of  them 
could  stay  there,  himself  and  Marian,  for  he  would  not 
that  she  should  suffer  more  than  need  be.  She  had 
recovered  from  her  first  and  early  love  ;  she  would  get 
over  this,  and  if  she  were  only  happy,  it  didn't  matter 
how  desolate  her  going  would  leave  him,  for  she  must 
go,  he  said.  He  had  come  to  that  decision,  sitting 
there  alone,  and  it  had  wrung  great  drops  of  perspi- 
ration from  his  brow  and  moans  of  anguish  from  his 
lips.  But  it  must  be — there  was  no  alternative,  he 
thought,  and  in  the  chair  where  Marian  Lindsey  once 
had  written  her  farewell,  he  wrote  to  Marian  Lindsey's 
rival  that  Redstone  Hall  could  be  her  home  no  longer. 

,  "  Think  not  that  you  have  displeased  me,"  he  said, 
"  for  this  is  not  why  I  send  you  from  me.  Both  of  us 
cannot  stay,  and  though  for  Alice's  sake  I  would  glad- 
ly keep  you  here,  it  must  not  be.  I  am  going  to  New 
Orleans,  to  be  absent  three  or  four  weeks,  and  shall 
not  expect  to  find  you  here  on  my  return.  You  will 
need  money,  and  I  enclose  a  check  for  a  thousand  dol- 
lars. Don't  refuse  to  take  it,  for  I  give  it  willingly, 
and  though  my  conduct  is  sadly  at  variance  with  rny 
words,  you  must  believe  me  when  I  say  that  in  all  the 
world  yon  have  not  so  true  a  friend,  as 

"  FREDERIC  RAYMOND." 

Many  times  he  read  this  letter  over,  and  it  was  not 
until  long  after  midnight  that  he  sought  his  pillow,  on- 
ly to  toss  from  side  to  side  with  feverish  unrest,  and  he 


366  TELLING   FREDERIC. 

was  glad  when  at  last  Josh  came  in  to  make  the  fire, 
for  by  that  toketi  lie  knew  it  was  morning. 

"  Tell  Dinah  I  will  breakfast  in  my  room,"  he  said, 
"and  say  to  Phil  that  he  must  have  the  carriage  ready 
early,  for  I  am  going  to  New-Orleans,  and  he  will  car- 
ry me  to  Frankfort." 

"  Ye-e-es,  Sir,"  was  Josh's  answer,  as  he  departed 
with  the  message. 

"  Marster  have  breakfast  in  his  room,  and  a  goin'  to 
New-Orleans?  In  the  Lord's  name  what's  happened 
him  ?"  exclaimed  Dinah,  and  when  Marian  came  down 
to  her  solitary  meal,  she  repeated  the  story  to  her, 
asking  if  she  could  explain  it. 

"  Marster's  looked  desput  down  in  the  month  a  long 
time  back,"  she  said.  "  What  you  'spect  'tis  ?" 

Marian  could  not  tell ;  neither  did  she  venture  a  sug- 
gestion, so  fearful  was  she  that  Frederic's  intended  de- 
parture would  interfere  with  the  plan  of  which  Alice 
had  talked  incessantly  since  daylight.  Hastily  finish- 
ing her  breakfast,  she  hurried  back  to  her  chamber, 
whither  the  note  bad  preceded  her. 

"  Luce  brought  this  to  you  from  Frederic,"  said 
Alice,  passing  her  the  letter,  "  and  she  says  he  looks 
like  he  was  crazy.  Read  it  and  see  what  he  wants." 

Marian  accordingly  tore  open  the  envelope,  and  with 
blanched  cheek  and  quivering  lip  read  that  she  must 
go  again  from  Redstone  Hall,  and  worse  than  all,  there 
was  no  tangible  reason  assigned  for  the  cruel  mandate. 
The  check  next  caught  her  eye,  and  with  a  proud, 
haughty  look  upon  her  face,  she  tore  it  in  fragments 
and  scattered  them  upon  the  floor,  for  it  seemed  an 
idle  mockery  for  him  to  offer  what  was  already  hers. 

"What  is  it,  Marian?"  asked  Alice,  and  recovering 
her  composure  Marian  read  to  her  what  Frederic  said 
while  Alice's  face  grew  white  as  hers  had  done  before. 

"  You  go  away  !"  she  exclaimed,  bounding  upon  the 
floor  and  feeling  for  the  warm  shawl  which  she  wore 
when  sitting  up.  "  You  won't  do  any  buch  thing 


TELLING    FREDERIC.  367 

You've  as  much  right  here  as  he  has,  and  I'm  going 
this  minute  to  tell  him  so." 

She  had  groped  her  way  to  the  door  and  was  just 
opening  it  when  Marian  held  her  back,  saying : 

"  You  must  not  go  out  undressed  and  barefooted  as 
you  are.  The  halls  are  cold.  Wait  here  while  I  go 
and  learn  the  reason  of  this  sudden  freak." 

"  But  I  want  so  much  to  tell  him  myself,"  said  Al- 
ice, and  Marian  replied,  "  So  you  shall,  I'll  send  Dinah 
up  to  dress  you  and  then  I  will  come  for  you  when  it's 
time." 

This  pacified  Alice,  who  already  began  to  feel  faint 
with  her  exertions,  and  she  crept  back  to  bed,  while 
Marian  descended  the  stairs,  going  first  to  Dinah  as  she 
had  promised,  and  then  with  a  beating  heart  turning 
her  steps  toward  the  library.  It  was  much  like  facing 
the  wild  beast  in  its  lair,  confronting  Frederic  in  his 
present  savage  mood.  He  felt  himself  as  if  his  reason 
were  overturned,  for  the  deliberate  giving  up  of  Marian 
Grey,  and  the  feeling  that  he  should  probably  never 
look  upon  her  face  again,  had  stirred,  as  it  were,  the 
very  depths  of  his  heart's  blood,  and  in  a  state  of  mind 
bordering  upon  distraction,  he  was  making  the  neces- 
sary preparations  for  his  hasty  journey,  when  a  timid 
knock  was  heard  outside  the  door. 

"Who's  there?  I'm  very  busy,"  was  his  loud,  im- 
perious answer,  but  Marian  was  not  to  be  thus  baffled, 
and  turning  the  knob,  she  entered  without  further 
ceremony,  recoiling  back  a  pace  or  two  when  she  met 
the  expression  of  Frederic's  eye. 

With  his  hands  full  of  papers,  which  he  was  thrust- 
ing into  his  pocket,  his  hair  disordered  and  his  face 
white  as  ashes,  he  turned  toward  her,  saying;  "Why 
are  you  here,  Miss  Grey?  Haven't  you  caused  me 
pain  enough  already?  Have  you  received  my  note?" 

"  I  have,"  she  answered,  advancing  still  further  into 
the  room.  "  And  I  have  come  to  ask  you  what  it 
means.  You  have  no  right  to  dismiss  me  so  suddenly 


368  TELLING    FREDERIC. 

without  an  explanation.  How  have  I  offended  ?.  You 
must  tell  me." 

"  I  said  you  had  not  offended,"  he  replied,  "  and 
further  than  that  I  can  give  no  explanation." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  your  house,  nor  yet  this  room  un- 
til you  do,"  was  her  decided  answer,  and  with  the  air 
of  one  who  meant  what  she  said,  Marian  went  so  near 
to  the  excited  man  that  he  could  have  touched  her  had 
he  chosen. 

For  an  instant  the  two  stood  gazing  at  each  other, 
Marian  never  wavering  for  an  instant,  while  over  Fred- 
eric's face  there  flitted  alternately  a  look  of  wonder, 
admiration,  and  perplexity.  Then  that  look  passed 
away  and  was  succeeded  by  an  expression  of  the  deep 
love  he  felt  for  beautiful  girl  standing  so  fearlessly  be- 
fore him. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  he  murmured  at  last,  and  totter- 
ing to  the  door,  he  turned  the  key;  then  returning  to 
Marian,  he  compelled  her  to  sit  down  beside  him  up- 
on the  sofa,  and  passing  his  arm  around  her,  so  that  she 
could  not  escape,  he  began :  "  You  say  you  will  not 
leave  the  room  until  you  know  why  I  should  send  you 
from  me.  Be  it  so,  then.  It  surely  cannot  be  wrong 
for  me  to  tell  when  you  thus  tempt  me  to  the  act ;  so,  for 
one  brief  half-hour,  you  are  mine — mine,  Marian,  and 
no  power  can  save  you  now  from  hearing  what  I  have 
to  say." 

His  looks,  even  more  than  his  manner,  frightened 
her,  and  she  said  imploringly,  "  Give  me  the  key,  Mr. 
Raymond.  Unlock  the  door  and  I  will  go  away  with- 
out hearing  the  reason." 

"I  frighten  you,  then,"  he  answered,  in  a  gentler 
tone,  drawing  her  nearer  to  him,  "  and  yet,  Marian 
Grey,  I  would  sell  my  life  inch  by  inch  rather  than 
harm  a  hair  of  your  dear  head.  Oh,  Marian,  Marian, 
I  would  to  Heaven  you  had  never  crossed  my  path,  for 
then  I  should  not  have  known  what  it  is  to  love  as  mad- 
ly, as  hopelessly,  as  wickedly  as  I  now  love  you. 
What  made  you  come  to  me  in  all  your  bright,  girlish 


TELLING    FREDERIC.     -  360 

beauty,  or  why  did  Heaven  suffer  me  to  love  you  as  I 
do?  My  punishment  was  before  as  great  as  I  could 
bear,  and  now  I  must  suffer  this  anguish,  too.  Oh, 
Marian  Grey,  Marian  Grey  !" 

He  wound  his  arms  close  around  her,  and  she  could 
feel  his  feverish  breath  as  his  lips  almost  touched  her 
burning  cheek.  In  the  words  "Marian  Grey,  Marian 
Grey,"  there  was  a  deep  pathos,  as  if  all  the  loving 
tenderness  of  his  nature  were  centered  upon  that  name, 
and  it  brought  the  tears  in  torrents  from  her  eyes.  He 
saw  them,  and  wiping  them  away,  he  said: 

"  The  hardest  part  of  all  to  me  is  the  knowledge 
that  you  must  suffer,  too.  Forgive  ine  for  saying  it, 
but  as  I  know  that  I  love  you,  so  by  similar  signs  J 
know  that  you  love-^ne. ,  Is  it  not  so,  darling?" 

Involuntarily  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  sob- 
bing : 

**  I  have  loved  you  so  long — so  long." 

But  for  her  promise  to  Alice  she  would  then  have 
told  him  all,  but  she  must  keep  her  word,  and  when 
he  rejoined,  "  It  does,  indeed  seem  long  since  that 
night  you  came  to  Riverside,"  she  did  not  undeceive 
him,  but  listened  while  he  continued,  "Bless  you  for 
telling  me  of  your  love.  When  you  are  gone  it  will 
be  a  comfort  for  me  to  think  that  Maiian  Grey  once 
loved  me.  I  say  once  for  you  must  overcome  that 
love.  You  must  tear  it  out  and  trample  it  beneath 
your  feet.  You  can  if  you  try.  You  are  not  as  hard, 
as  callous  as  I  am.  My  heart  is  like  adamant,  and 
though  I  know  that  it  is  wicked  to  love  you,  and  to 
tell  you  of  my  love,  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am.  a  wretcli, 
and  when  1  tell  you,  as  I  must,  just  what  a  wretch  I 
am,  it  will  help  you  to  forget  me — to  hate  me,  it  may 
be.  You  have  heard  of  my  wife.  You  know  she  left 
ime  on  my  bridal  night,  and  1  have  never  known  the 
joys  of  wedded  bliss — never  shall  know,  for  even  if 
she  conies  back  to  me  now,  /  cannot  Live  with  lier  /" 

"  Oh,  Frederic !"    And  again  the  hot  tears  trembled 

16* 


370  TELLING   FKEDEBIO. 

through  the  hands  which  Marian  clasped  before  her 
eyes. 

"  Don't  call  me  thus,"  said  Frederic,  entreatingly, 
as  he  removed  her  hands,  and  held  them  both  in  his. 
"  Don't  say  Frederic,  for  though  it  thrills  me  with 
strange  joy  to  hear  you,  it  is  not  right.  Listen,  Mari- 
an, while  I  tell  you  why  I  married  her  who  bears  your 
name,  and  then  I'm"  sure  you'll  hate  me — nor  call  me 
Frederic  again.  I  have  never->told  but  one,  and  that 
one,  William  Gordon.  I  had  thought  never  to  tell  it 
again,  but  it  ie  right  that  you  should  know.  Marian 
Lindsey  was,  or  is,  the  Heiress  of  Kedstone  Hall.  All 
my  boasted  wealth  is  hers — every  cent  of  it  is  hers. 
But  she  didn't  know  it,  for" — and  Frederic's  voice  was 
very  low  and  plaintive  now  as  he  told  to  Marian  Grey 
how  Marian  Lindsey  was  an  heiress — told  her  of  his 
dead  parent's  fraud — of  his  desire  to  save  that  parent's 
name  from  disgrace,  and  his  stronger  desire  to  save 
him  from  poverty.  "  So  1  made  her  my  wife,"  he  said. 
"I  promised  to  love  and  cherish  her  all  the  time  my 
heart  was  longing  for  another." 

Marian  trembled  now,  as  she  lay  helpless  iu  his 
arms,  and,  observing  it,  he  continued  : 

"  I  most  confess  the  whole,  and  tell  you  that  I  loved, 
or  thought  I  loved,  Isabel  Huntington,  though  how  I 
could  have  fancied  her  is  a  mystery  to  me  now.  My 
poor  Marian  was  plain,  while  Isabel  was  beautiful,  and 
naught  but  Alice  kept  me  from  telling  her  my  love. 
Alice  stayed  the  act— Alice  sent  me  to  New  York  to 
look  for  Marian " 

"And  did  you  never  hear  from  her  ?  Did  she  never 
send  you  a  letter?"  Marian  asked,  and  he  replied  : 

"Never!  If  she  had  I  should  have  known  where 
to  find  her." 

llien,  as  briefly  as  possible,  for  he  knew  time  was 
Qustening,  he  told  of  his  fearful  sickness,  and  of  the 
little  girl  who  took  such  care  of  him — told,  too,  of  his 
ceary  search  for  her,  and  of  the  many  dreary  nights 


TELLING   FKEDEJBIO.  371 

he  had  passed  in  thinking  of  her,  and  her  probable 
fate. 

"  Then  you  came,"  he  said,  "  and,  struggle  as  I 
would,  I  could  not  mourn  for  Marian  Lindsey  as  I  had 
done  before.  I  was  satisfied  to  have  you  here  until 
the  conviction  burst  upon  me,  that  far  greater  than 
any  affection  I  had  thought  I  could  feel  for  that  blue- 
eyed  girl,  and  ten-fold  greater  than  any  love  I  had  felt 
for  Isabel  Huntington,  was  my  love  for  you.  It  has 
worn  upon  me  terribly.  Look  1"  And  pushing  back 
his  thick  brown  locks,  he  showed  her  where  the  hair 
was  turning  white  beneath.  "These  are  for  you,"  he 
said.  "There  are  furrows  upon  my  face — furrows  up- 
on my  heart — and  can  you  wortder  that  I  bade  you  go, 
and  so  no  longer  tempt  me  to  sin?  And  yet,  could  I 
keep  you  with  me,  Ma-riau  ?  Could  I  hold  you  to  my 
bosom  just  as  I  hold  you  now,  and  know  that  I  had  a 
right  so  to  do  ? — a  right  to  call  you  mine — my  Marian 
— my  wife  ?  Not  Heaven  itself,  I'm  sure,  has  greater 
happiness  in  store  for  those  who  merit  its  bliss  than 
this  would  be  to  me!  Oh,  why  is  the  boon  denied  to 
me  ?  Why  must  I  suffer  on  through  wretched,  dreary 
years,  and  know  that  somewhere  in  the  world  there  is 
a  Marian  Grey,  who  might  have  been  rny  wife  ?" 

"  Let  me  go  for  Alice,"  said  Marian,  struggling  to 
release  herself.  "  There  is  something  she  would  tell 
you."^ 

"Yes,  in  a  moment,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  promise  me 
first  one  thing.  The  news  may  come  to  me  that  I  am 
free,  and  if  it  does,  and  you  are  still  unmarried,  will 
you  then  be  my  wife?  Promise  that  you  will,  and  the 
remembrance  of  that  promise  will  help  me  to  bear  a 
little  longer." 

"I  do!  said  Marian,  standing  up  before  him,  and 
holding  one  of  his  hands  in  hers.  "  I  promise  you, 
solemnly,  that  no  other  man  shall  ever  call  me  wife 
save  you." 

There  were  tears  in  Frederic's  eyes,  and  his  whole 


372  TELLING   FKEDEKIO. 

frame  quivered  with  emotion,  as,  catching  at  her 
dress,  for  she  was  moving  toward  the  door,  lie  added  : 

"  And  you  will  wait  for  me,  darling — wait  for  me 
twenty  years,  if  it  needs  must  be?  You  Avill  never  be 
old  to  me.  I  shall  love  you  just  the  same  when  these 
sunny  locks  are  grey,"  and  he  passed  his  hands  caress- 
ingly over  her  bright  hair.  There  was  a  world  of  love 
and  tenderness  in  the  answering  look  which  Marian 
gave  to  him  as  he  opened  the  door  for  her  to  pass  out, 
and  wringing  his  hands  in  anguish,  he  cried  to  him- 
self, "  Oh,  how  can  I  give  her  up — beautiful,  beautiful 
Marian  Grey  !" 

Swift  as  a  bird  Marian  flew  up  the  stairs  in  quest  of 
Alice,  who  was  to  tell  the  wretched  man  that  it  was 
not  a  sin  for  him  to  love  the  beautiful  Marian  Grey. 

"  Alice,  Alice  !  Gc  now — go  quick  !"  she  exclaimed, 
bursting  into  the  irom. 

"  Go  whar — for  the  dear  Lord's  sake  ?"  said  Dinah, 
who  had  that  moment  come  up,  and  consequently  had 
made  but  litr'.e  progress  in  dsessing  Alice.  "  Go 
whar?  Not  down  stairs — 'strue  as  yer  born.  She'll 
cotch  her  death  o'  cold !" 

"Hurry — do/"  cried  Alice,  standing  first  on  one 
foot  and  then  upon  the  other.  "  I  must  tell  Frederic 
something  before  he  goes  away.  There,  he's  going ! 
Oh,  Marian,  help!"  she  fairly  screamed,  as  she  heard 
the  carriage  at  the  door,  and  Frederic  in  the  hall 
jjelow. 

Marian  was  terribly  excited,  and  in  her  attempts  to 
assist,  she  only  made  matters  worse  by  buttoning  the 
wrong  button,  putting  both  stockings  on  the  same 
foot,  pulling  the  shoe  lacing  into  a  hard  knot,  which 
baffled  all  her  nervous  efforts,  while  Dinah  worked  on 
leisurely,  insisting  that  Alice  -(  wasn't  gwine  down, 
and  if  there  was  anythin'  kiilin'  which  marster  'or'to 
know,  Miss  Grey  could  tell  him  herself." 

"  Yes,  Marian,  go,"  said  Alice,  in  despair,  as  she  heard 
Dud  bid  Frederic  good  by,  and,  scarcely  conscious  of 
what  she  was  about,  Marian  ran  down  the  stairs,  just 


TELLING   FREDERIC.  373 

as  Phil  cracked  his  whip,  and  the  spirited  greys 
bounded  off  with  a  rapidity  which  left  her  taint  cull 
of  "  Stop,  Frederic,  stop  !"  far  behind. 

"I  can  write  to  dim,"  she  thought,  as  she  slowly  re- 
traced her  steps  back  to  Alice,  who  was  bitterly  disap- 
pointed, mid  who,  alter  Dinah  was  gone,  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed,  refusing  to  be  comforted. 

"Three  weeks  was  forever,"  she  said,  and  she  sug- 
gested sending  Josh  after  the  traveler,  who,  in  a  most 
unenviable  frame  of  mind,  was  riding  rapidly  towards 
Frankfort. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Marian,  "  I  will  write  immediately, 
so  he  can  get  the  letter  as  soon  almost  as  he  reaches 
New  Orleans.  It  won't  be  three  weeks  before  he  re- 
turns," and  she  strove  to  divert  the  child's  mind  by  re- 
peating to  her  as  much  as  she  thought  proper  of  her 
exciting  interview  with  Frederic. 

But  Alice  could  not  be  comforted,  and  all  that  day 
she  lamented  over  the  mischance  which  had  taken 
Frederic  away  before  she  could  tell  him. 

"  There's  Uncle  Phil,"  she  said,  when  towards  night 
she  heard  the  carriage  drive  into  the  yard ;  "  and 
hark,  hark  !"  she  exclaimed,  turning  her  quick  ear  iu 
the  direction  of  the  sound,  and  rolling  her  bright  eye 
around  the  room  ;  "  there's  a  step  on  the  piazza  that 
sounds  like  his — 'tis  him — 'tis  him  !  He's  come  back  ! 
I  knew  he  would  1"  and  in  her  weakness  and  excite- 
ment the  little  girl  sunk  exhausted  at  Marian's  feet. 

Raising  her  up,  Marian  listened  breathlessly,  but 
heard  nothing  save  Phil,  talking  to  his  horses  as  he 
drove  them  to  the  stable. 

"  lie  lias  not  come,''  she  said,  and  Alice  replied,  "  I 
tell  you  he  has.  There — there,  don't  you  hear?"  and 
Marian's  heart  gave  one  great  bound  as  she,  too,  heaid 
the  well-known  footstep  upon  the  threshold  and  Fred- 
erick speaking  to  his  favorite  Dud,  who  had  run  to 
meet  "  his  mars,"  asking  for  sugar-plums  from  New 
Orleans. 

There  had   been  a  change  in   the  time-table,  aiid 


374  TELLING   FREDERIC. 

Frederic  did  not  reach  Frankfort  until  after  the  train 
he  intended  to  take  had  gone.  His  first  thought  was 
to  remain  in  the  city,  and  wait  for  the  next  train  from 
Lexington.  Accordingly  he  gave  his  parting  directions 
to  Phil,  who  being  in  no  haste  to  return,  loitered  away 
the  morning  and  a  portion  of  the  afternoon  before  lie 
turned  his  horses  homeward.  As  he  was  riding  up  the 
long  hill  which  leads  from  Frankfort  into  the  country 
beyond,,  he  unexpectedly  met  his  master,  who  had 
been  to  the  cemetery,  and  was  just  returning  to  the 
Capitol  Hotel. 

All  the  day  Frederic  had  thought  of  Marian  Grey, 
and  with  each  thought  it  had  seemed  to  him  more  and 
more  that  he  must  see  her  again,  if  only  to  hear  her 
say  that  she  would  wait  all  time  for  him,  and  when  he 
came  upon  Phil,  who  he  supposed  was  long  ere  this  at 
Redstone  Hall,  his  resolution  was  taken,  and  instead 
of  the  reproof  he  knew  he  merited,  Phil  was  surprised 
at  hearing  his  master  say,  as  he  made  a  motion  for  him 
to  stop  : 

"  Phil,  I  am  going  home." 

And  thus  it  was  that  he  returned  again  to  Redstone 
Hall,  where  his  coming  was  hailed  with  eager  joy  by 
Marian  and  Alice,  and  created  much  surprise  among 
the  servants. 

"  My  'pinion  he's  a  little  out  of  his  head,"  was  all  the 
satisfaction  Phil  could  give,  as  he  drove  the  carriage  to 
the  barn,  while  Frederic,  half  repenting  of  his  rash- 
ness in  returning,  and  wondering  what  good  excuse  he 
could  render,  went  to  his  own  room — the  one  formerly 
occupied  by  his  father — where  he  sat  before  the  glow- 
ing grate,  when  Alice  appeared,  covered  with  shawls, 
and  her  face  all  aglow  with  her  excitement. 

She  would  not  be  kept  back  another  moment,  lest 
h.e  should  go  off  again,  so  Marian  had  wrapped  her  up 
and  sent  her  on  her  mission.  Frederic  sat  with  his  face 
turned  toward  the  fire,  and  though  by  the  step  he  knew 
who  it  was  that  entered  the  door,  he  did  not  turn  hia 


TELLING   FREDERIC.  375 

head  or  evince  the  least  knowledge  of  her  presence  un- 
til she  stood  before  him,  and  said,  inquiringly  : 

"  Frederic,  are  yon  here  ?" 

"  Yes  ;"  was  the  answer,  rather  curtly  spoken,  for  he 
would  rather  be  alone. 

"  Frederic  !"  and  the  bundle  of  shawls  trembled  vi 
olently.  "  I  have  come  to  tell  you  something  abou 
Marian." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it,"  was  his  reply ;  and,  noth- 
ing daunted,  Alice  continued : 

"  But  you  must  hear  me.  Her  name  isn't  Miss 
Grey.  She  is  a  married  woman,  and  has  a  living  hus- 
band ;  and  you- — '—" 

She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  like  a  tiger  Fred- 
eric started  up,  and  seizing  her  by  the  shoulder,  ex- 
claimed :  "  You  dare  not  tell  me  that  again.  Marian 
Grey  is  not  married.  She  never  had  a  husband,"  and 
as  the  maddening  thought  swept  over  him,  that  possi- 
bly the  blind  girl  told  him  truly,  he  staggered  against 
the  mantel,  where  he  stood  panting  for  breath,  and  en- 
during, as  it  were,  all  the  agonies  of  a  lingering,  pain- 
ful death. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Alice,  and  like  a  child  he  obeyed, 
while  she  proceeded,  "  Miss  Grey  has  deceived  us  all, 
and  it  is  strange,  too,  that  none  of  us  should  know  her 
• — none  but  Bruno.  Don't  you  remember  how  he 
wouldn't  bite  her,  just  because  he  knew  her  when  we 
didn't  ?  Don't  you  mind  how  I  told  you  once  maybe 
the  Marian  who  went  away  would  come  back  to  us 
some  day  so  beautiful  we  should  not  know  her?  You 
are  listening,  ain't  you  2" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  came  in  a  quick,  short  gasp  from  the 
arm-chair. 

'•  Well,  she  has  come  backl  She  called  herself  Ma- 
rian Grey  so  we  would  not  guess  right  off  who  she  was, 
but  she  ain't  Marian  Grey.  She's  the  other  one — she's 
MY  MARIAN,  Frederic,  AND  YOUR  WIFE — " 

As  Alice  was  speaking  Frederic  had  risen  to  hia 
feet  Drop  by  drop  every  particle  of  blood  receded 


376  TELLING   FREDERIC. 

from  his  face,  leaving  it  colorless  as  ashes.  There  was 
a  wild,  unnatural  light  flashing  from  his  eyes- -his 
hands  worked  nervously  together — his  hair  seemed 
starting  from  its  roots,  and  with  his  head  bent  for- 
ward, he  stood  transfixed  as  it  were  by  the  dazzling 
light  which  had  burst  upon  him.  Then  his  lips  parted 
slowly,  and  more  like  a  wailing  cry  than  a  prayer  of 
thanksgiving,  the  words  "  I  thank  thee,  oh,  my  God," 
issued  from  them.  The  next  moment  the  air  near 
Alice  was  set  in  rapid  motion — there  was  a  heavy  fall, 
and  Frederic  Raymond  lay  upon  the  carpet  white  and 
still  as  a  block  of  marble. 

Like  lightning  Alice  flew  across  the  floor,  but  swift 
as  were  her  movements,  another  was  there  before  her, 
and  with  his  head  upon  her  hip  was  pressing  burning 
kisses  upon  his  lips  and  dropping  showers  of  tears  up- 
on iiis  face.  Marian  had  stood  without  the  door,  list- 
ening to  that  dialogue,  and  when  by  the  fall  she  knew 
that  it  was  ended,  she  came  at  once  and  knelt  by  the 
fainting  man,  who  ere  long  began  to  show  signs  of 
consciousness.  Alice  was  first  to  discover  this,  and 
when  sure  that  he  would  come  back  to  life,  she  glided 
silently  from  tiie  room,  for  she  knew  that  she  would 
not  be  needed  there. 

She  might  have  tarried  yet  a  little  longer,  for  the 
shock  to  Frederic  had  been  so  sudden  and  so  great, 
that  though  his  lips  moved  and  his  fingers  clutched 
eagerly  at  the  soft  hand  feeling  for  his  pulse,  he  did 
not  seem  to  heed  aught  else,  until  Marian  whispered 
in  his  ear : 

"  My  husband — may  I  call  you  so  ?'' 

Then,  indeed,  he  started-  from  his  lethargy,  and, 
struggling  to  his  feet,  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  weep- 
ing over  her  passionately,  and  murmuring  as  he  did 
so  : 

"  My  wife — my  darling — ^my  wife  !  Is  it  true  that 
you  have  come  to  me  again  ?  Are  you  my  Marian  ?" 

Daylight  was  fading  from  the  room,  for  the  Winter 
Bun  had  set  behind  the  western  hills,  and  leading  hei 


TELLING   FREDERIC.  377 

to  the  window,  lie  turned  her  face  to  the  light,  gazing 
rapturously  upon  it,  and  saying  to  her : 

"  You  are  mine — all  mine  !  God  bless  you,  Ma- 
rian !" 

He  kissed  her  hands,  her  neck,  her  lips,  her  fore- 
head, her  hair,  and  she  could  feel  his  hot  tears  falling 
amid  the  shining  curls  he  parted  so  lovingly  from  her 
brow.  They  were  not  hateful  to  him  now — and  he 
passed  his  hand  caressingly  over  them,  whispering  aL 
the  while : 

"  My  own  beautiful  Marian — my  bride — my  wife!" 

Surely,  in  this  moment  of  bliss,  Marian  felt  repaid 
for  all  that  she  had  suffered,  when  at  last  as  thoughts 
of  the  dreadful  past  came  over  Frederic,  he  led  her  to 
the  sofa,  and  said,  "Can  you  forgive  me,  darling?" 
she  turned  her  bright  eyes  up  to  his,  and  by  the  ex- 
pression of  perfect  happiness  resting  there,  he  knew 
she  had  forgotten  the  cold,  heartless  words  he  spoke 
to  her,  when  once,  at  that  very  hour,  and  in  that  very 
place,  he  asked  her  to  be  his.  That  scene  had  faded 
away,  leaving  no  cloud  between  them.  All  was  sun- 
shine and  gladness,  and  with  her  fair  head  resting  on 
his  bosom — not  timidly,  as  it  had  lain  there  in 
the  morning,  but  trustingly,  confidingly,  as  if  that 
were  its  rightful  resting-place — they  sat  together  until 
the  rose-red  tinge  faded  from  the  western  sky,  and  the 
night  shadows  had  crept  into  the  room. 

More  than  once  Alice  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  door,  to 
see  if  it  were  time  for  her  to  enter,  but  as  often  as  she 
heard  the  low  murmur  of  their  voices,  she  went  noise- 
lessly back,  saying  to  herself:  "I  won't  disturb  them 
yet." 

At  last  as  she  came  once  she  stumbled  accidentally, 
ind  this  woke  Marian  from  the  sweetest  dream  which 
ever  had  come  to  her. 

'"Tis  Alice,"  she  said;  and  she  called  to  the  little 
girl  who  came  gladly,  and  climbing  into  Frederics 
lap,  twined  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  laid  a  cheek 
against  his  own,  without  word  of  comment. 


378  TELLING   FREDERIC. 

*'  Blessed  Alice,  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  repay," 
he  said,  and  Marian,  far  better  than  the  child,  appre- 
ciated the  full  meaning  these  words  conveyed. 

But  for  the  helpless  blind  girl  this  hour  might  never 
have  come  to  them,  and  the  strong  man  felt  it  so,  as 
he  hugged  the  little  creature  closer  to  him,  blessing  her 
as  his  own  and  Marian's  good  angel.  Observing  that* 
she  shivered  as  if  with  the  cold,  he  arose,  and  drawing 
the  sofa  directly  before  the  tire,  resumed  his  sent 
again,  with  Marian  between  himself  and  Alice,  his  arm 
around  her  neck  and  his  lips  almost  constantly  meeting 
hers.  He  could  not  remove  his  eyes  from  her,  she 
seemed  to  him  so  beautiful,  with  the  tirelight  falling  on 
her  sparkling  face  and  shining  on  her  hair.  That  hair 
— how  it  puzzled  him,  and  winding  one  of  the  curls 
about  his  fingers  he  said,  half  laughingly,  half  reluc- 
tantly, "Your  hair  was  not  always  this  color." 

Then  the  blue  eyes  flashed  up  into  his,  and  Marian 
replied  by  telling  whence  came  the  change,  and  re- 
minding him  that  she  was  the  same  young  girl  of 
whom  the  Yankee  Ben  had  spoken  when  he  visited 
Kentucky. 

u  And  you  had  almost  died,  then,  for  me,  my  pre- 
cious one,"  saia  Frederic,  kissing  the  sunny  locks. 

Just  at  this  point,  old  Dinah  appeared  in  the  door, 
which,  like  most  Kentucky  doors,  was  left  ajar.  She 
saw  the  position  of  the  parties — saw  Frederic  kiss  Ma- 
rian Grey — saw  Alice's  look  of  satisfaction  as  he  did 
so,  and  in  an  instant  all  the  old  lady's  sense  of  pro- 
priety was  roused  to  a  boiling  pitch. 

Since  Marian  had  revealed  herself  to  Alice,  the  lit- 
tle girl  had  said  to  Dinah,  by  way  of  preparing  her 
for  the  surprise  when  it  should  uome,  that  u  there  was 
some  doubt  concerning  the  death  of  Marian — that 
Frederic  believed  she  had  been  with  him  in  New 
York,  and  had  taken  means  to  find  her."  This  story 
was,  of  course,  repeated  among  the  servants,  some  of 
whom  credited  it,  while  others  did  not.  Among  the 
latter  was  Dinah.  She  wouldn't  believe  "  she  had 


TELLING   FREDERIC.  379 

done  all  her  monrnin'  for  nothin',"  and  in  opposition 
to  Hetty,  she  persisted  in  saying  Marian  was  dead. 
When,  however,  she  saw  her  master's  familiarity  with 
Miss  Grey,  she  accepted  of  her  young  mistress's  exist- 
ence as  a  reality,  and  was  terribly  incensed  against  the 
offending  Marian  Grey. 

"The  trollop!"  she  muttered.  "But  I'll  bring 
proof  agin  her,"  and  hurrying  back  to  the  kitchen,  she 
told  to  the  astonished  blacks,  "  how't  marster  done 
kissed  Miss  Grey  spang  on  her  har,  and  on  her  mouth, 
and  hugged  her  into  the  bargain,  when  he  didn't  know 
for  certain  that  t'other  one  was  dead  ;  and  if  they 
didn't  b'lieve  it,  they  could  go  and  see  for  themselves, 
provided  they  went  mighty  still." 

"  Tole  you  he  was  crazy}"  said  Uncle  Phil,  starting 
to  see  the  wonderful  sight,  and  followed  by  a  troop  of 
negroes,  all  of  whom  trod  on  tiptoe,  a  precaution 
wholly  unnecessary,  for  Frederic  and  Marian  were  too 
much  absorbed  in  each  other  to  heed  the  dusky  group 
assembled  round  the  door,  their  white  eyes  growing 
larger  as  they  all  saw  distinctly  the  arm  thrown  across 
Marian's  neck. 

"  Listen  to  dat  ar,  will  you  ?"  whispered  Hetty,  E8 
Frederic  said,  "  Dear  Marian,"  while  old  Dinah  chimed 
in,  "  'Cl.ir  for't,  it  makes  my  blood  bile,  and  he  not  a 
widower  nuther  1" 

"Quit  dat!"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  as  her  master 
showed  signs  of  repeating  the  kissing  offense ;  and,  in 
an  instant,  Frederic  sprang  to  his  feet,  an  angry  flush 
mounting  to  his  face  when  he  saw  the  crowd  at  the 
door. 

Then,  as  he  began  to  comprehend  its  meaning,  the 
frown  gave  place  to  a  good-humored  laugh,  and  taking 
Marian's  hand,  he  led  her  toward  the  assembled 
blacks,  saying  to  them  : 

"Rejoice  with  me  that  the  lost  one  has  returned  to 
us  again,  for  this  is  Marian  Liudsey — my  wife  and 
your  mistress — changed,  it  is  true,  but  the  same  Ma- 
rian who  went  from  us  more  than  six  years  ago." 


380  TELLING  FREDERIC. 

"  Wondei  if  he  'spects  us  to  swallow  dat  ar  ?"  said 
the  unbelieving  Hetty. 

Dinah,  on  the  contrary,  had  not  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt,  and  she  dropped  on  her  knees  at  once,  kissing 
the  very  hem  of  Marian's  dress,  and  exclaiming  through 
her  tears  : 

"  Lord  bress  yon,  Miss  Marian.  You've  mightily 
altered,  to  be  sure,  but  ain't  none  the  wns  for  that. 
I'm  nothin'  but  a  poor  old  nigger,  and  can't  say  what's 
in  my  heart,  but  it's  full  and  runniii'  over,  bless  you, 


Dinah's  example  was  contagious,  and  more  than 
one  prostrated  themselves  before  their  mistress,  while 
their  howling  cries  of  surprise  and  delight  were  al- 
most deafening.  Particularly  was  Josh  delighted,  and 
while  the  noise  went  on,  he  took  occasion  to  "•  balance 
to  your  partner,"  in  the  hall,  with  a  young  yellow 
girl,  who  thought  his  stammering  was  music,  and  his 
ungainly  figure  the  most  graceful  that  could  be  con- 
ceived. When  the  commotion  had  in  a  measure  sub- 
sided, and  Hetty  had  gone  over  to  the  popular  side, 
saying,  "  she  knew  from  the  first  Marian  was  some- 
body," Frederic  madeaf'W  brief  explanations  as  to 
where  their  mistress  had  been,  and  then  dismissed 
them  to  their  several  duties,  for  he  preferred  being 
alone  again  with  his  wife  and  Alice. 

Supper  was  soon  announced,  but  little  was  eaten  by 
any  one.  They  were  too  much  excited  for  that,  and  as 
Boon  as  the  meal  was  over,  they  returned  to  Frederic's 
room,  where,  sitting  again  between  her  husband  and 
Alice,  Marian  told  them,  as  far  as  possible,  every- 
thing which  had  come  to  her  since  leaving  Redstone 
Hall. 

"  Can't  I  ever  know  what  made  you  go  away  ?" 
Alice  asked  ;  and  Frederic  replied  : 

u  Yes,  birdie,  you  shall  ;"  and,  without  sparing  him- 
self in  the  least,  he  told  her  all. 

"  Marian  an  heiress,  too  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Will 
marvels  never  cease  ?"  and  she  laid  her  head  which 


TELLING   FREDERIC.  381 

was  beginning  to  grow  weary,  upon  Marian's  lap, 
saving,  "  I  never  knew  till  now  one  half  hrw  good 
you  are.  No  wonder  Frederic  thought  that  he  had 
killed  you.  It  was  wicked  in  him,  very,"  and 
the  brown  eyes  looked  sleepily  into  the  fire,  while 
Marian  replied : 

"  But  is  all  forgotten  now." 

It  did  seem  to  be,  and  in  the  long  conversation 
which  lasted  till  almost  midnight,  there  was  many  a 
word  of  affection  exchanged,  many  a  confession  made, 
many  a  forgiveness  asked,  and  when,  at  last  they 
parted,  it  was  with  the  belief  that  each  was  all  the 
world  to  the  other. 

Like  lightning  the  news  spread  through  the  neigh- 
borhood that  Frederid  Raymond's  governess  was  Fred- 
eric Raymond's  wife ;  and,  for  many  days  the  house 
was  thronged  with  visitors,  most  of  whom  remembered 
little  Marian  Lindsey,  and  all  of  whom  offered  their 
bincere  congratulations  to  the  beautiful  Marian  Grey, 
for  so  she  persisted  in  being  called,  until  the  night  of 
the  20th  of  February,  when  they  were  to  give  a  bri- 
dal party.  Then  she  would  answer  to  Mrs.  Raymond, 
&he  said,  but  not  before,  and  with  this  Frederic  was 
fain  to  be  satisfied.  Great  were  the  preparations  for 
that  party,  to  which  all  their  friends  were  to  be  bidden, 
and  as  they  were  one  evening  making  out  the  list,  Ma- 
rian suggested  Isabel,  more  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
what  Frederic  would  bay,  than  from  any  desire  to 
have  her  present. 

"  Label,"  he  repeated,  "  never.  I  cannot  so  soon 
forget  her  treachery,"  and  a  frown  darkened  his  hand- 
some face,  but  Marian  kissed  it  away  as  she  said : 

"  You  surely  will  not  object  to  Ben,  the  best  and 
truest  friend  1  ever  had." 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  Frederic.  "  I  owe  Ben 
Burt  more  than  1  ever  can  repay,  and  I  mean  to  keep 
j  ;m  with  us.  He  is  just  the  man  I  want  upon  my 
farm — your  farm,  I  mean,"  he  added,  smiling  know- 


382  TELLING   FREDERIC 

ingly  upon  her,  and  catching  in  his  the  little  hand 
raised  to  shut  his  mouth. 

But  Marian  had  her  revenge  by  refusing  to  let  him 
kiss  her  until  he  had  promised  never  to  allude  to  that 
again. 

"  I  gave  you  Redstone  Hall,"  she  said,  "  that  night 
I  ran  away,  and  I  have  never  taken  it  back,  but  have 
brought  you  in  instead  an  incumbrance  which  may 
prove  a  most  expensive  one."  And  amid  such  pleas- 
antries as  these  Marian  wrote  the  note  to  Ban,  and  then 
went  back  to  her  preparations  for  the  party,  which, 
together  with  the  strange  discovery,  was  the  theine  of 
the  whole  country. 


BEN. 

BEN  sat  among  his  boxes  and  barrels  cracking  hick- 
ory nuts  and  carrying  on  a  one  sided  conversation  with 
the  well  fed  cat  and  six  beautiful  kittens,  which  were 
gamboling  over  the  floor,  the  terror  of  rats  and  mice 
and  the  pride  of  their  owner,  who  found  his  heart  alto- 
gether too  tender  to  destroy  any  one  of  them  by  the 
usual  means  of  drowning  or  decapitation.  So  he  was 
literally  killing  them  with  kindness,  and  with  his  seven 
cats  and  odd  ways  was  the  wonder  and  favorite  of  the 
entire  village. 

The  night  was  dark  and  stormy,  and  fancying  he 
had  dismissed  his  last  customer  he  had  settle'd  himself 
before  the  glowing  stove  with  nearly  half  a  peck  of 
nuts  at  his  side,  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  little  boy 
came  in,  his  light  hair  covered  with  snow,  which  had 
also  settled  upon  other  portions  of  his  person. 

"  Good  evenin',  Sandy,"  was  Ben's  salutation. 

<%  What  brung  you  here  to-night  ?" 

"  Got  you  a  letter,"  returned  Sandy,  who  was  the 
chore  boy  of  the  Post  Master.  "  It's  been  a  good 
while  coming,  too,  for  all  it  says  'in  haste,'  "  and  pass- 
ing the  note  to  Ben,  he  caught  up  live  or  six  of  the 
kittens,  while  Ben,  tearing  open  the  envelope  and 
snuffing  a  tallow  candle  with  his  fingers  read : 

"  DEAR  BEN, 

"  Frederic  knows  it  all,  and  we  are  so  happy.  We 
are  to  have  a  great  party  on  the  20th,  and  you  must 


384  BEN. 

surely  come.  Don't  fail  us,  that's  a  dear,  good  Ben, 
but  come  as  soon  as  you  get  this.  Then  I  will  tell  you 
•what  I  can't  write  now,  for  Frederic  keeps  worrying 
me  with  teasing  me  to  kiss  him. 

Yours  truly, 

"  MARIAS. 

"  P.  S. — Alice  sends  her  love,  so  does  Frederic,  and 
BO  do  I,  dear  Ben." 

" 1  'most  wish  she'd  left  off  that  last,  and  that 
about  his  kissin'  her,"  said  Ben,  when,  after  the  boy 
Sandy  departed  he  was  alone.  "  It  makes  me  feel  so 
streaked  like.  Gruy,  wouldn't  I  give  all  my  groceries, 
and  the  six  cats  into  the  bargain,  to  be  in  Fred  Ray- 
mond's boots ;"  and,  taking  up  the  kitten  he  called 
"  Marian  Grey,"  he  fondled  it  tenderly,  for  the  sake 
of  her  whose  name  it  bore.  "  I  shall  go  to  this  party," 
he  continued,  as  his  mind  reverted  again  to  the  letter, 
"  though  I'll  be  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  toad  in  a 
sugar  bowl  ;  but,  I  can  see  Marian,  and  that  little 
blind  girl,  and  Josh.  Wa'n't  he  a  case,  though  ?" 
And  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  Ben  mentally  made  the 
necessary  arrangements  for  leaving. 

These  arrangements  were  next  day  carried  into  ef- 
fect, and  as  he  must  start  at  once  if  he  would  be  there 
in  time  for  the  party,  he  took  the  night  express  for 
Albany,  having  left  his  feline  family  to  the  care  of 
the  boy  Sandy.  The  second  night  found  him  on  the 
train  between  Buffalo  and  Cleveland,  and  as  the  wea- 
ther was  very  cold  and  the  seat  near  the  stove  unoccu- 
pied, he  appropriated  it  to  himself,  and  was  just  tall- 
ing  away  to  sleep,  when  a  lady,  wrapped  in  velvet 
and  furs,  with  a  thickly  dotted  vail  over  her  face, 
came  up  to  him,  and  said,  rather  haughtily  : 

"  Can  I  have  this  seat,  sir?  I  prefer  it  to  any  other." 

"  So  do  I,"  returned  Ben  ;  "  but  bein'  you're  a  wo- 
man, I'll  give  it  up,  1  guess." 

And  he  sought  another,  of  which  there  were  plenty, 
for  it  was  the  last  car,  and  not  one-third  full. 


BKN.  385 

"  Considerable  kind  o?  toppin',''  was  his  mental 
comment,  as  he  coiled  himself  in  his  shaggy  overcoat 
for  a  second  time,  sleeping  ere  long  so  soundly  that, 
nothing  disturbed  him,  until  at  last,  as  they  turned  a 
short  curve,  the  car  was  detached  from  the  others, 
and,  leaving  the  track,  was  precipitated  down  an  em- 
bankment, which,  fortunately,  was  not  very  steep, 
so  that  none  were  killed,  although  several  were 
wounded,  and  among  them  the  lady  who  had  so  un- 
ceremoniously taken  possession  of  Ben's  comfortable 
seat. 

"  Wall,  now,"  said  Ben,  crawling  out  of  a  window, 
and  holding  fast  to  his  hat,  which  being  new,  was  his 
special  care,  "  if  this  ain't  a  little  the  imperlitest  way 
of  wakin'  a  feller  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  to  pitch  him 
head  over  heels  in  among  these  blackb'ry  bushes  and 
stuns  ;  but  who  the  plague  is  that  ascreechin'  so? — a 
woman's  voice,  too !" 

And  with  all  his  gallantry  aroused.  Ben  went  to 
the  rescue,  feeling  his  way  through  briars  and 
grass  and  broken  pieces  of  the  car,  until  he  reached 
the  human  form  struggling  beneath  the  ruins,  in  close 
proximity  to  the  hissing  stove. 

"  Easy,  now,  my  gal,"  he  said,  lifting  her  up.  "  Haul 
your  foot  out,  can't  you  ?" 

"  No,  no,  it's  crushed  ;"  and  Ben's  knees  shook  be- 
neath him  at  the  cry  of  pain. 

Relief  soon  came  from  other  sources,  and  as  this 
ladyvseerned  more  seriously  injured  than  either  of  the 
other  passengers,  she  was  carried  carefully  to  a  dwell- 
ing near  by,  and  laid  upon  a  bed,  before  Ben  had  a 
chance  to  see  her  features  distinctly. 

"Pretty  well  jammed,"  said  he,  examining  the  bon- 
net, which  the  women  of  the  farm-house  had  removed. 

Supposing  he  meant  herself,  the  lady  moaned, 

"Oh,  sir,  is  my  face  entirely  crushed?" 

"  I  meant  your  bonnet,"  returned  Ben,  "  though  if  I 
was  to  pass  judgment  on  you,  I  should  say  some  of  your 
feathers  was  crumpled  a  little  ;  but  law,  beauty  ain't 

17 


386  BEN. 

"but  skin  deep.  It's  good,  honest  actions  that  makes 
folks  liked." 

And  taking  the  lamp,  he  bent  to  investigate,  discov- 
ering to  his  utter  amazement,  that  the  lady  was  none 
other  than  Isabel  Huntington.l 

Some  weeks  before,  and  ere  Marian's  identity  with 
.Frederic's  wife  had  heen  made  known,  Mrs.  Rivers  had 
invited  her  to  visit  Kentucky,  and  as  there  was  now 
nothing  in  Yonkers  to  interest  her  she  had  accepted, 
with  the  forlorn  hope  that  spite  of  Frederic's  improba- 
ble story  about  a  living  wife,  he  might  eventually  be 
won  back-  fo  his  old  allegiance.  Accordingl}r  she  had 
taken  the  same  train  and  car  with  Ben,  and  by  rather 
rudely  depriving  him  of  his  seat  near  the  stove  had 
been  considerably  injured,  receiving  several  flesh 
wounds,  besides  breaking  her  ankle.  For  this  last, 
however,  she  did  not  care ;  that  would  get  well  again  ; 
but  her  face — was  it  so  disfigured  as  to  spoil  her 
boasted  beauty  ?  This  was  her  constant  thought  as  she 
Jay  moaning  upon  her  pillows,  and  when  for  a  few  mo- 
ments she  was  alone  with  Ben,  whom  she  knew  to  be 
the  Yankee  peddler,  and  who  considered  it  his  duty  to 
Btay  with  her,  she  suid  to  him  : 

fc'  Please,  Mr.  Butterworth,  tell  me  just  how  much  I 
am  bruised,  and  whether  I  shall  probably  be  a  fright 
tiie  rest  of  my  days." 

"  Wall,  now,"  returned  Ben,  taking  the  lamp  a  sec- 
ond time  and  coming  nearer  to  her,  "  there's  no  know- 
in'  how  you  will  look  hereafter,  but  the  fact  is  you 
ain't  none  too  hau'some  now,  with  your  face  swelled 
as  big  as  two,  and  all  scratched  up  with  them  pesky 
briars." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  interrupted  Isabel,  "  but  the  swelling 
will  go  down  and  the  scratches  will  get  well.  That 
isn't  all." 

"  You're  right,"  said  Ben,  peering  curiously  at  her ; 
"that  ain't  all.  You  know,  I  'spose,  that  six  of  your 
front  teeth  are  knocked  out." 

"  Yes,  but  false  ones  will  remedy  that.     I'll  have 


BEN.  387 

them  made  a  little  uneven  so  as  to  look  natural ;  go 
on." 

"  Wall,"  continued  Ben,  "  you've  fixed  your  teeth, 
but  what  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  your  broke  nose  ?" 

',  Oh  !"  screamed  Isabel,  clasping  her  hand  to  that 
organ,  which,  from  its  classic  shape  had  been  her  spe- 
cial pride.  "Not  broken — is  it  broken,  true?" 

"  Looks  mighty  like  it,"  answered  Ben,  "  but  law 
doctors  can  do  anything.  They'll  tinker  it  up-  so  it 
will  answer  to  sneeze  out  of  and  smell  with  as  good  as 
ever  ;  and  they'll  sew  up  that  ugly  gash,  too,  that  runs 
like  a  Yirginny  fence  from  your  ear  up  onto  your  fore- 
head and  part  of  your  cheek.  Looks  as  though  there'd 
been  a  scar  of  some  kind  there  before,"  and  looking 
closer,  Ben  saw  the  mark  which  the  hot  iron  had  made 
that  night  when  the  proud  Isabel  had  given  the  cruel 
blow  to  the  blind  girl. 

This  she  had  heretofore  managed  to  conceal  by  comb- 
ing over  it  her  hair,  but  nothing  could  hide  the  s*eam 
she  knew  would  always  be  upon  her  forehead  and 
cheek. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  die,"  she  groaned,  "  if  I  must 
be  so  mutilated." 

"  Pshaw!  no  you  don't,"  returned  Ben,  now  acting 
the  part  of  a  consoler.  "Your  eyes  ain't  damaged, 
nor  your  hair  neither,  only  singed  a  little  with  the 
stove.  There's  some  white  ones,  I  see,  but  they  must 
have  been  there  before.  Never  used  Wood's  brim- 
stony  stuff,  did  you?  That'll  keep  it  from  turnin.'  I 
knew  a  chap  once  with  a  broke  nose  that  looked  like 
the  notch  in  the  White  Mountains,  and  nobody  thought 
of  it,  he  was  so  good.  Maybe  your'n  ain't  so  bad. 
Perhaps  it's  only  out  of  j int.  The  doctor'lb-know — 
here  he  comes,"  and  Ben  stood  back  respectfully,  while 
the  physician  examined  the  nature  and  extent  of  Isa- 
bel's injuries. 

There  was  nothing  serious,  he  said  ;  nothing  from 
which  she  would  not  recover.  She  was  only  stunned 
and  bruised,  besides  having  a  broken  ancle.  The  cut 


388  BEN. 

on  the  face  would  probably  leave  a  scar,  and  the  noso 
never  be  straight  again,  otherwise  she  would  ere  long 
be  as  well  as  ever,  but  she  mast  of  course  remain 
where  she  was  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and  he  asked  if 
she  had  friends  with  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  while  Ben  said :  "  Yes,  I'm  her 
friend,  and  though  I  want  to  go  on  the  wust*way,  I'll 
stay  till  her  mother  comes.  We'd  better  telegraph,  I 
guess." 

This  brought  the  tears  from  the  heartless  Isabel,  for 
she  appreciated  Ben's  kindness  in  not  deserting  her, 
and  when  again  they  were  alone,  she  thanked  him  for 
BO  generously  staying  with  her  when  she  heard  him  say 
he  wished  to  go  on. 

"  Were  you  going  to  Kentucky  ?"  she  asked,  and  Ben 
replied  :  "  Yes,  goiii'  to  see  how  Miss  Raymond  looks 
at  the  head  of  a  family.  You've  heard,  I  s'pose,  that 
Marian  Grey  was  Fred's  run-away  wife,  and  that  they 
are  as  happy  now  as  two  clams." 

Unmindful  of  the  fierce  twinges  of  pain  it  gave  her 
to  move,  Isabel  started  up  exclaiming,  "  No,  no,  how 
can  that  be  ?" 

"Just  as  easy,"  said  Ben,  proceeding  to  narrate  a 
few  particulars  to  his  astonished  listener,  who,  when 
he  had  finished,  lay  back  again  upon  her  pillow,  weep- 
ing bitterly. 

This,  then,  was  the  end  of  all  her  secret  hopes. 
Frederic  was  surely  lost  to  her ;  the  beautiful  Marian 
Grey  was  his  wife,  and  what  was  worse  than  all,  her 
treachery  was  undoubtedly  suspected,  and  what  must 
they  think  of  her  ?  Poor  Isabel,  she  was  in  a  measure 
suffering  for  her  sins,  and  she  continued  to  weep  while 
Ben  tried  in  vain  to  sooth  her,  talking  to  her  upon 
the  subject  uppermost  in  his  mind,  namely,  Marian's 
happiness  and  his  own  joy  that  it  had  all  come  right  at 
lasi.  Isabel  would  rather  have  heard  of  anything  else, 
but  when  she  saw  how  kind  Ben  was,  she  compelled 
herself  to  listen,  even  though  every  word  he  said  of 


BEN.  389 

Marian   and  Frederic  pierced  her  with  a  keener  pain 
than  even  her  bruises  produced. 

"  I  shan't  be  in  time  for  the  doin's  any  way,"  thong] it 
Ben,  when  Mrs.  Huntington  did  not  come  at  the  ex- 
pected time,  and  as  he  fancied  it  his  duty  to  let  Ma- 
rian know  why  lie  was  not  there,  he  telegraphed  to 
her,  "  We've  had  a  break  down,  and  Isabel  is  knocked 
into  a  cocked  hat." 

This  telegram,  which  created  no  little  sensation  at 
the  office,  was  copied  verbatim  and  sent  to  Frederic, 
who  read  it,  while  Marian,  in  her  chamber,  was  dress- 
ing for  the  party.  He  could  not  forbear  laughing 
heartily,  it  sounded  so  much  like  Ben,  but  he  wisely 
determined  to  keep  it  from  his  wife  and  Alice,  as  it 
might  c"ar.se  them  unnecessary  anxiety.  He  accord- 
ingly thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  and  then,  when  it  was 
time,  went  up  for  Marian,  who,  in  her  bridal  dress  of 
satin  and  lace,  with  pearls  and  diamonds  woven  among 
her  shining  hair,  and  flashing  from  her  neck  and  arms, 
looked  wondrously  beautiful  to  him,  and  received 
many  words  of  commendation  from  the  guests,  who 
soon  began  to  appear,  and  who  felt  that  the  bride  of 
Redstone  Hall  well  became  her  high  position.  Many 
were  the  pleasant  jokes  passed  at  Frederic's  expense, 
and  the  clergyman  who  had  officiated  at  his  wedding 
more  than  six  years  before,  laughingly  offered  to  repeat 
the  ceremony.  But  Frederic  shook  his  head,  saying, 
he  was  satisfied  if  Marian  was,  while  the  look  the 
beautiful,  blushing  bride  gave  to  him,  was  quite  as  ex 
pressive  of  her  answer  as  words  would  have  been. 
And  so,  amid  smiles  and  congratulations,  the  song  and 
the  dance  moved  on,  and  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage 
bell,  until  at  last,  as  the  clock  told  the  hour  of  mid- 
night, the  last  guest  had  departed,  and  Frederic,  with 
his  arm  round  Marian,  was  calling  her  Mrs.  Raymond, 
on  purpose  to  see  her  blush,  when  there  came  up  the 
avenue  the  sound  of  rapid  wheels,  followed  by  a  bound 
on  the  piazza,  and  the  next  moment  Ben  burst  into  the 


390  BEN. 

\ 

room,  holding  up  both  hands,  as  he  caught  sight  of 
Marian  in  her  bridal  robes. 

"  My  goodness !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Ain't  she  pretty, 
though.  It's  curis  how  clothes  will  fix  up  a  woman," 
and  the  tears  came  to  Ben's  eyes  in  his  delight  at  see 
ing  Marian  so  resplendent  in  jewels  and  costly  lace. 

The  meeting  between  Frederic  and  Ben  was  like 
brother  greeting  brother,  for  the  former  felt  that  he 
almost  owed  his  life  to  the  great-hearted  Yankee,  and 
he  grasped  his  hand  warmly,  bidding  him  welcome  to 
Redstone  Hall,  and,  by  his  kind,  familiar  manner, 
putting  him  at  once  at  his  ease.  Alice,  too,  did  her 
part  well,  and,  pressing  Ben's  hand  to  her  lips,  she 
said  : 

"  I  love  you,  Ben  Burt ;  love  you  a  heap,  for  being 
so  good  to  Marian." 

'•  Don't  now,"  said  Ben,  whiningly.  "  Don't  set  me 
to  bellerin'  the  fust  thing.  I  only  did  what  anybody 
would  have  done,  unless  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
was  all  turned  to  bonny  clabber  !"  Then,  as  lie  thought 
of  Isabel,  he  continued,  "  I  tried  to  get  here  sooner, 
but  Miss  Hantington  didn't  come  till  the  last  minute, 
and  I  couldn't  leave  Isabel.  How  she  does  take  on 
about  her  sp'ilt  beauty." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Marian.  "  "Where  is 
Isabel?"  and  as  Frederic  then  passed  her  the  telegram, 
ehe  continued  to  ask  questions,  until  she  had  learned 
the  whole. 

"  Poor  girl !"  she  sighed ;  "  I  pity  her,  and  if  she 
were  here,  I  would  so  gladly  take  care  of  her." 

Instantly  there  flashed  upon  Alice's  mind  an  idea 
every  way  worthy  of  her,  but  she  would  not  suggest  it 
then,  as  it  was  growing  late,  and  when  she  heard  ere 
long  a  loud  yawn  from  Ben,  she  thoughtfully  rang  the 
bell,  bidding  the  servant  who  came  "show  Mr.  Burt 
to  his  room  ;"  then,  kissing  Frederic  and  Marian  good- 
night, she,  too,  departed,  leaving  them  alone. 

Next  morning,  at  the  breakfast-table,  she  said  to 
Frederic : 


BEN.  391 

"  Don't  folks  most  always  take  a  bridal  tour?" 

"  Sometimes,  when  they  can't  be  happy  at  home," 
returned  Frederic.  ""Where  does  my  blind  birdie  wish 
to  go  ?" 

"  I  don't  really  wish  to  go,"  answered  Alice  ;  "  but 
•wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  surprise  poor  Isabel,  lying  so 
bruised  and  sick  in  that  old  farm-house  in  Ohio? 
Maybe  she  wants  money  ?  I  heard  them  say  at  Yon- 
kers  that  she  had  spent  all  Mr.  Rivers  left  her,  except 
the  house,  and  that  was  mortgaged.  I've  got  ten  dol- 
lars that  I'll  give  her." 

"  Blessed  baby  1"  said  Ben,  bringing  out  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  which  he  was  pretty  sure  to  need. 

This  suggestion  was  warmly  seconded  by  Marian, 
and  after  a  little  further  consultation,  it  was  decided 
that  they  should  start  the  next  day  for  the  place  where 
Isabel  lay  sick. 

"She  may  confess  about  the  letters,"  said  Marian, 
"  and  that  will  make  me  like  her  so  much  better." 

This  being  settled,  A-lice's  next  inquiry  was  for  her 
cat,  and  her  brown  eyes  opened  wide  with  wonder 
when  told  of  the  six  young  kittens  which  had  a  home 
in  Ben  B art's  grocery,  and  one  of  which  was  called 
for  her. 

"  It  ought  to  be  blind,"  said  the  little  girl,  and,  with 
a  quivering  chin,  Ben  answered  : 

"  That's  it,  though  I  shouldn't  have  told  you  for  fear 
of  hurtin'  your  feelin's.  The  little  cat  is  blind,  and 
when  Sandy — that's  a  boy  who  lives  there — said  how 
he  would  kill  it  for  me,  it  struck  to  my  stomick  to 
once,  for  that  little  critter  lies  even  nigher  to  my  heart 
than  the  handsomest,  sleekest  one,  which  I  call  '  Ma- 
rian Grey,'  and  'tis  grey,  too,  with  mottled  spots  all 
over  its  back,  while  Alice  is  white  as  milk  !" 

The  cat  story  being  satisfactorily  concluded,  Ben 
went  out  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  the  negroes, 
who  vied  with  each  other  in  paying  him  marked  at- 
tention. Though  they  did  nut  quite  understand  it, 
they  knew  that  he  was  in  some  way  connected  with 


S92  BEN. 

the  return  of  their  yonng  mistress,  and  neither  Dinah 
nor  Hetty  made  the  least  objection  when,  before  night, 
they  saw  the  two  black  babies  which  had  usurped  the 
rights  of  Dud  and  Victor//,  seated  upon  his  lap  and 
"  riding  to  Boston  to  buy  penny  cakes,"  at  a  rate 
which  bade  fair  to  throw  them  to  the  top  of  the  ceil- 
ing at  least,  if  not  to  land  them  somewhere  in  the  vici- 
nity of  the  bay  state  capital. 

The  next  morning,  Frederic,  Marian  and  Alice  start- 
ed for  Ohio,  leaving  Ben  in  charge  at  Redstone  Hall. 

"  He'd  tend  to  the  niggers,"  he  said,  and  he  bade 
the  "Square,"  as  he  persisted  in  calling  Frederic, 
"  not  to  worry  at  all  about  things  to  hum." 

The  family  had  scarcely  been  gone  an  hour  when 
Dinah  came  in  quest  of  Ben,  whom  she  found  in  the 
parlor  drumming  Yankee  Doodle  upon  the  piano  with 
one  hand  and  whistling  by  way  of  accompaniment. 

"Thar  was  the  oueerest  actin'  man  in  the  dinin' 
room,"  she  said,  "  and  he  done  ax  for  marster,  and 
when  I  tole  him  he  had  gone  to  the  'Hio  with  his  wife, 
he  laughed  so  hateful,  and  say  how't  she  isn't  his  wife, 
that  I  come  for  you,  'case  thar's  a  look  in  his  eye  I 
don't  like." 

"  Catch  him  tellin'  me  Marian  ain't  a  lawful  wife," 
said  Ben,  starting  from  the  stool  and  hurrying  to  the 
dining-room,  where  very  much  intoxicated,  Rudolph 
Me  Vicar  was  sitting. 

He  had  landed  not  long  before  at  New  Orleans,  and 
coming  up  the  river  as  far  as  Louisville  had  stopped 
in  that  city,  where  he  accidentally  heard  a  young  man 
speak  of  Frederic's  wedding  party,  which  had  taken 
place  the  previous  night. 

"  Who  is  the  bride  ?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "  Is  it 
Miss  Huntington  ?"  and  the  young  man  who  knew 
none  of  the  particulars,  and  who  had  once  heard  that 
Frederic  was  to  marry  a  lady  of  that  name,  replied  : 
"  Yes,  I  believe  it  is,  or  at  all  events  she  was  his  gov- 
erness." 

Rudolph  waited  for  no  more,  but  started. at  once  for 


BEN.  393 

Redstone  Hall,  chuckling  with  delight  as  he  thought 
of  the  consternation  his  visit  would  create.  He  did 
not  at  first  recognize  Ben,  neither  did  Ben  know  him, 
so  bloated  had  he  become  with  drink,  and  so  rough 
and  red  with  exposure  upon  the  sea. 

"  Where  is  the  woman  they  call  Mrs.  Raymond  ?" 
he  asked  with  a  sneer;  and  Ben  replied:  "Gone  with 
her  husband  to  Ohio." 

"  Her  husband !"  repeated  Rudolph.  "  He  isn't  her 
husband.  She  has  no  right  to  be  his  wife,  and  I  have 
come  to  tell  her  so." 

"  You  say  that  again  if  you  dare  !"  said  Ben,  brist- 
ling up  in  Marian's  defense.  "  You  say  that  Marian 
ain't  Frederic's  lawful  wife,  and  I'll  show  you  the  door, 
plaguy  quick.  I'm  boss  here  now." 

As  Ben  was  speaking,  Rudolph  remembered  that 
they  had  met  before,  but  he  scarcely  heeded  that,  so 
intent  was  he  upon  the  name  which  Ben  had  uttered. 

"  Marian  !"  he  repeated,  a  light  breaking  over  him  ; 
"Is  not  Isabel  Huntington  the  bride?" 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Ben,  snapping  his  fingers  al- 
most in  the  stranger's  face.  "  She  didn't  come  that 
game,  though  she  tried  it  hard  enough.  But  what  do 
you  know  about  it,  any  way?" 

"  I  know  I've  been  a  fool,"  answered  Rudolph,  ex- 
plaining, in  a  few  words,  what  he  once  had  done. 

"So  you  wrote  that  letter,  }ou  scullion,"  returned 
Ben.  "But  it  didn't  do  no  good;  and  the  smartest 
trick  you  ever  done  was  to  sign  yourself  green.  Ugh! 
and  Ben's  voice  was  quite  expressive  of  his  contempt. 
"I  don't  blame  you  so  much  though,"  he  continued, 
"for  wilntm'  to  pester  that  Isabel,  but  you'd  better  le,t 
the  Lord  'tend  to  such  critters  in  his  own  way.  He 
can  fix  'em  better'u  we  can,"  and  Ben  proceeded  to 
give  an  account  of  the  accident  in  which  Isabel's 
beauty  had  been  seriously  impaired. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  was  Rudolph's  exclamation,  and  he 
was  proceeding  further  to  express  his  malicious  joy, 
when  Ben  cut  him  short  by  saying : 


BEN. 


"  It  don't  look  well  to  rejoice  ovei  anybody's  down- 
fall, though  I'm  none  too  friendly  to  the  gal,  I  shan't 
hear  her  berated,  and  you  may  as  well  quit." 

On  ordinary  occasions,  Rudolph  would  have  resent- 
ed any  attempt  at  restraint,  but  he  was  too  much  in- 
toxicated now  fully  to  realize  anything,  and  staring 
vacantly  at  Ben,  he  made  no  reply,  but  ere  long  fell 
asleep,  dozing  in  his  chair  for  several  hours.  Then, 
with  faculties  somewhat  brightened,  he  announced  his 
intention  of  leaving.  With  an  immense  degree  of  sat- 
isfaction Ben  watched  him  as  he  went  slowly  down 
the  avenue,  saying  to  himself: 

"  Poor  drunken  critter,  he's  disappointed,  I  s'pose, 
in  not  gettin'  revenge  his  own  way  ;  but  I  don't  blame 
her  much  for  givin'  him  the  mitten.  Wouldn't  they 
have  scratched  each  other's  eyes  out,  if  they'd  come 
together  !  Better  be  as  'tis  —  she  a  nervous  old  maid, 
and  he  in  a  drunkard's  grave,  where  he  will  be  mighty 
soon  —  the  bloat  !"  and  having  finished  his  soliloquy, 
Ben  returned  again  to  his  music. 

Meantime,  in  a  most  unenviable  frame  of  mind, 
Isabel  was  chiding  her  mother  for  doi-ng  everything 
wrong,  and  bewailing  her  own  sad  fate  : 

"  Oh,  why  didn't  I  stay  at  home,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
so  not  have  become  the  fright  I  know  I  am?" 

It  was  in  vain  that  her  mother  made  her  feel  thank- 
ful that  her  life  was  spared.  Isabel  did  not  care  for 
that.  She  thought  only  of  her  lost  teeth,  her  disjoint- 
ed nose,  and  ugly  scar,  and  turning  her  face  to  the 
wall  she  was  wishing  she  could  die,  when  the  woman 
of  the  house  came  in,  telling  her  "  some  friends  were 
there  from  Kentucky.'  ' 

"  Who  are  they  ?"  she  asked  ;  but  ere  the  woman 
could  reply,  a  sweet  voice  said  : 

"It's  me,  and  all  of  us;"  and  Alice's  little  hands 
were  tenderly  pressed  to  Isabel's  feverish  brow. 

Then,  indeed,  the  haughty  girl  wept  aloud,  for  she 
knew  she  did  not  deserve  this  kindness  either  from 
Alice  or  Marian,  the  latter  of  whom  soon  came  in, 


BEN.  395 

greeting  her  as  pleasant^  as  if  she  had  never  received 
an  injury  from  her  hands.  Frederic,  too,  was  per- 
fectly self-possessed,  expressing  his  sympathy  for  her 
misfortune,  and  with  these  kind  friends  to  cheer  her 
sick  room,  Isabel  recovered  in  a  measure  her  former 
cheerfulness.  But  there  was  evidently  something  rest- 
ing heavily  upon  her  mind,  and  that  night,  when  alone 
with  Frederic  and  Marian,  she  confessed  to  them  her 
wickedness  in  opening  the  letter,  and  sending  it  back 
with  so  cruel  a  message. 

"  We  knew  you  must  have  done  it,"  said  Frederic, 
at  the  same  time  assuring  her  of  his  own  and  Marian's 
forgiveness.  "  It  kept  us  apart  for  many  }'ears,"  he 
continued,  "  but  I  have  found  her  at  last,  and  love  her 
all  the  more  for  what  I  suffered." 

And  Isabel,  when  she  saw  the  look  of  deep  affection 
he  gave  to  his  young  wife,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  wept  silently,  until  Marian  asked  "if  she 
knew  aught  of  the  letter  from  Sarah  Green?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  am  surely  innocent  of 
that,"  and  they  believed  her,  wondering  all  the  more 
whence  it  could  have  come  or  why  it  had  been  sent. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  next  day,  they  took  their 
leave,  cordially  inviting  Isabel  to  visit  them  at  Red- 
stone Hall,  should  she  ever  feel  inclined  so  to  do. 

"  We  will  let  bygones  be  bygones,"  said  Frederic, 
taking  her  hand  at  parting.  "  You  and  I  have  both 
learned  that  to  deal  fairly  and  openly  is  the  best  policy, 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  we  will  profit  by  the  experi- 
ence." 

Isabel  did  not  answer,  but  she  pressed  his  hand,  and 
returned  warmly  the  kiss  which  both  Marian  and  Al- 
ice gave  to  her.  As  the  latter  was  turning  away  she 
detained  her  a  moment  while  she  whispered  in  her 
ear,  u  Will  you  forgive  me  for  that  blow  I  gave  you 
when  I  thought  I  was  about  to  be  exposed  ?" 

tk  Yes,  willingly,"  was  the  answer,  and  thrusting  the 
golden  eagle  under  the  pillow,  Alice  hurried  away. 
They  found  it  after  she  was  gone,  and  when  at  last 


396 

Isabel  was  abie  to  go  home,  they  found  their  hills 
paid,  too,  and  were  at  no  loss  to  know  to  whom  they 
were  indebted  for  the  generous  act.  u  I  do  not  de- 
serve this  from  him  of  all  others,"  said  Isabel,  and 
drawing  her  thick,  green  veil  close  over  her  marred 
face  she  entered  the  carriage  which  had  come  to  take 
them  to  the  depot. 

Not  once  during  the  journey  home  did  she  remove 
the  veil,  but  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  car  she  sat, 
a  forlorn,  wretched  woman,  brooding  drearily  over 
the  past,  and  seeing  in  the  future  no  star  to  cheer  her 
pathway.  Frederic  lost,  Redstone  Hall  lost,  her  little 
fortune  wasted, — and  worse  than  all,  her  boasted  beau- 
ty gone  forever.  Poor,  poor  Isabel  1 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


SUMMING    UP. 

IT  is  early  June,  and  the  balmy  south  wind  is  blow- 
ing soft  and  warm  round  Redstone  Hall,  which,  with 
its  countless  roses  in  full  bloom,  and  its  profusion  of 
flowering  shrubs  and  vines,  looked  wondrously  beau- 
tiful without,  while  within,  the  sunlight  of  domestic 
peace  is  shining  with  no  cloud  to  dim  its  brightness. 
Frederic  and  Marian  are  perfectly  happy,  for  the  dark 
night  which  enshrouded  them  so  long  has  passed 
away,  and  the  day  they  fancy  will  never  end  has 
dawned  upon  them  at  last. 

Ben,  too,  is  there,  ostensibly  as  an  overseer,  but 
really  as  a  valued  friend,  free  to  do  whatever  he 
pleases,  and  greatly  esteemed  by  those  whom  he  wor- 
ships with  a  devotion  bordering  upon  idolatry.  Ev- 
erything pertaining  to  the  phice  he  calls  his,  and  Fred- 
eric hardly  knows  whether  himself  or  Ben  is  the  mas- 
ter of  Redstone  Hall.  The  negroes  acknowledge  them 
both,  though,  as  is  quite  natural,  the  aristocratic  Hig- 
ginses  give  the  preference  to  Frederic,  while  the  dem- 
ocratic Smitherses,  with  stammering  Josh  at  their 
head,  warmly, advocate  Marster  Ben,  "as  sayin'  tho 
curi.sest  things  and  singin'  the  drollest  songs." 

There  is  no  spot  in  the  world  where  Ben  could  be  so 
supremely  happy  as  he  is  at  Redstone  Hall,  with  Ma- 
rian and  Alice;  and  when  Frederic,  on  his  return  from 
Ohio,  suggested  his  remaining  there,  he  evinced  his 
delight  in  his  usual  way,  lamenting  the  while  that  his 


398  SUMMING   UP. 

extremely  tender  heart  would  always  make  him  cry 
just  when  he  did  not  wish  to. 

"  I  was  never  cut  out  for  a  nigger  driver,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  I  guess  I  can  coax  as  much  out  of  'em  as  that  blus- 
terin'  Warren  did ;"  and  making  his  visit  short,  lie 
hastened  back  to  New  England,  where  he  found  no 
difficulty  of  disposing  of  his  grocery,  and  five  of  his 
numerous  family. 

Tlu'se  last  he  bestowed  upon  different  people  in  the 
village,  taking  great  care  that  none  of  them  should  go 
where  there  were  children,  and  numerous  were  his  in- 
junctions that  they  should  be  well  cared  for,  and  suf- 
fered to  die  a  natural  death.  Marian  and  Alice  were 
destined  for  Kentucky,  where  they  were  welcomed 
joyfully  by  those  whose  names  they  bore.  Particu- 
larly was  the  white  one,  with  its  bright,  sightless  eyes, 
the  pft  of  the  entire  household,  negroes  and  all ;  while 
even  Bruno,  who,  on  account  of  his  recognition  of  Ma- 
rian, was  now  allowed  more  liberty  than  before,  and 
was  consequently  far  less  savage,  took  kindly  to  the 
little  creature,  tossing  it  up  in  his  huge  paws,  licking 
its  snowy  face,  and  sometimes  coaxing  it  into  his  ken- 
nel, where  it  was  more  than  once  found  by  the  de- 
lighted Alice,  sleeping  halt'  hidden  under  the  mastiff's 
shaggy  mane. 

Frequently  on  bright  days  could  Alice  and  her  kit- 
ten be  seen  seated  in  a  miniature  waggon,  which  the 
Yankee  ingenuity  of 'Ben  had  devised,  and  in  which 
he  drew  his  blind  pets  from  tield  to  n'eld,  seeking  out 
for  them  the  shadiest  spot  and  watching  all  their 
movements  with  a  vigilance  which  told  how  dear  to 
him  was  one  of  them  at  least.  In  all  the  wide  world 
there  is  nothing  Ben  Burt  loves  halt'  so  well  as  the 
helpless  blind  girl,  Alice — not  as  he  loved  Marian 
Grey,  but  with  a  tender,  unselfish  devotion,  which 
would  prompt  him  at  any  time  to  lay  down  his  life  foi 
her,  if  it  need  must  be.  All  the  fairest  flowers  and 
choicest  fruits  are  brought  to  her.  And  when  he  sees 


SUMMING   TIP.  399 

how  she  enjoys  them,  aud  how  grateful  she  is  to  him, 
he  murmurs  softly  : 

"  Blessed  bird,  I  b'heve  I'd  be  blind  myself,  if  she 
could  only  see." 

But  Alice  does  not  care  for  sight,  except  at  time0, 
when  she  hears  the  people  speak  of  Mrs.  Raymond's 
beauty,  and  she  wishes  she  could  look  upon  the  face 
whose  praises  so  many  ring.  Still  she  is  very  happy 
in  Frederic's  and  Marian's  love,  and  happy,  too,  with, 
her  faithful  friend,  around  whose  neck  she  often  twines 
her  arms,  blessing  him  for  all  he  was  Lo  Marian  and 
all  he  is  to  her. 

Once  she  hoped  to  improve  his  peculiar  dialect  some- 
what by  imparting  to  him  a  greater  knowledge  of 
books  than  he  already  possessed,  and  Ben,  willing  to 
gratify  her,  waded  industriously  through  the  many 
volumes  she  recommended  him  to  read,  among  which 
was  u  Watts  on  the  Mind."  But  vain  were  all  his  ef- 
forts to  grasp  a  single  idea,  and  he  returned  it  to  Al- 
ice, saying  that  "  he  presumed  it  was  a  very  excitin' 
story  to  some,  but  blamed  if  he  could  make  out  a  word 
of  sen?e  from  beginnin'  to  finis." 

"'Taint  much  use  tryin'  to  make  a  scholar  of  me," 
said  he,  winking  slyly  at  Marian,  who  was  present. 
"  It's  hard  enough  teach  in'  old  dogs  new  trick*,  and  if 
I's  to  read  all  there  is  in  the  Squire's  library,  I  shouldn't 
be  no  better  off." 

Marian  thought  so,  too,  and  she  dropped  a  few  well- 
timed  hints  to  Alice,  who  gradually  relaxed  her  ef- 
forts to  teach  one  who,  had  he  been  educated,  would 
certainly  not  have  been  the  simple-hearted,  unselfish 
man  we  now  know  as  Ben  Burt. 

Away  to  the  northward  among  the  New  England 
hills  there  is  a  forsaken  grave,  where  the  inebriated 
Rudolph  sleeps.  His  thirst  for  revenge  is  over  and 
the  forlorn  girl  who,  in  her  mother's  kitchen  washes 
the  dinner  dishes  for  college  students  just  as  she  used 
to  when  Frederic  Raymond  was  a  boarder  there,  has 
nothing  to  dread  from  him.  Mrs,  Huntington's  house 


100  SUMMING   TIP. 

on  the  river  has  been  sold  to  cancel  the  mortgage,  and 
in  the  city  of  Elms  she  has  returned  to  her  old  voca 
tion,  and  Isabel,  with  her  broken  nose  and  ugly  scar 
has  scarcely  a  hope,  that  among  her  mother's  boarders 
there  will  ever  one  be  found  weak  enough  to  offer  her 
his  hand.     An  humbled,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped,  a  bet- 
ter woman,  she  derives  her  greatest  comfort  from  the 
letters  which  sometimes  come  to  her  from  Marian,  and 
which  usually  contain  a  more  substantial  token  of  re 
gard  than  mere  words  convey. 

One  word  now  of  William  Gordon  and  our  story  is 
done.  Ben  had  claimed  the  privilege  of  writing  the 
news  to  him,  and  he  did  it  in  his  charactistic  way,  first 
touching  upon  the  note  which,  he  said,  was  safe  in  his 
wallet  and  sure  of  being  paid,  then  launching  out  into 
glowing  descriptions  of  Marian's  happines  with  Fred- 
eric. 

This  letter  was  a  long  time  in  finding  "Will,  and  the 
answer  did  not  reach  Redstone  Hall  until  the  family  had 
returned  from  their  summer  residence  at  Riverside. 
Then  it  came  to  them  one  warm  November  day,  just 
as  the  sun  was  setting,  and  its  mellow  rays  fell  upon 
the  group  assembled  upon  the  piazza.  Frederic,  to 
whom  it  was  directed,  broke  the  seal  and  read  the  sin- 
cere congratulations  which  his  early  friend  had  sent  to 
him  from  over  the  sea, — read,  too,  that  'mid  the  vine- 
clad  hills  of  Bingen,  in  a  cottage  looking  out  upon  the 
Rhine,  there  w;is  a  fair  haired  German  girl,  with  eyes 
like  Marian  Grey,  and  that  when  Will  came  next  to 
America  he  would  not  be  alone. 

"  For  this  fair-haired  German  girl,"  he  wrote,  "  has 
promised  to  come  with  me.  I  have  told  her  of  my 
former  love,  and  when  last  night  I  read  to  her  Ben's 
letter,  the  tears  glistened  in  her  lustrous  eyes  as  she 
^whispered  in  her  broken  English  tongue,  'God  bless 
sweet  Marian  Grey,'  and  I,  too,  Fred,  from  a  full 
heart  respond  the  same,  God  bless  sweet  Marian  Grey, 
the  Heiress  of  Redstone  Hall." 


"  There  is  a  kind  of  physiognomy  in  the  titles 
of  books  no  less  than  in  the  faces  of 
men,  by  which  a  skilful  observer 
will  know  as  well  what  to  ex- 
pect from  the  one  as  the 
other" — LUTIER. 


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HOW  COULD  HE  HELP  IT.—  do.  .  .  do.  $1.50 

LIKE  AND  UNLIKE.—  do.  .  .  do.  $1.50 

A  NEW  NOVEL.— In  Press.  do.          $1.50 

Walter  Barrett,  Clerk. 

OLD  MERCHANTS  OF  NEW  YORK.— Being  personal  incidents, 
interesting  sketches,  bits  of  biography,  and  gossipy  events 
in  the  life  of  nearly  every  leading  merchant  in  New  York 
City.  Three  series.  .  .  I2mo.  cloth,  each,  $1.75 

T.  S.  Arthur's  New  Works. 

LIGHT  ON  SHADOWED  PATHS.— A  novel.  1  2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

OUT  IN  THE  WORLD.—  do.  .  do.  81.50 

NOTHING  BUT  MONEY.— /7Z  PrCSS.  do.  .  do.  $1.50 

Orpheus   C.  Kerr. 

ORPHEUS  C.  KERR  PAPERS.— Two  series.       izmo.  cloth,  $1.50 
THE  PALACE  BEAUTIFUL.— And  other  poems.      do.         $1.50 

M.  Mlchelet's  Works. 

LOVE  (L' AMOUR).— From  the  French.  izmo.  cloth,  $1.50 

WOMAN  (LA  FEMME.)—  do.  .  .  do.  $1.50 

WOMAN'S  PHILOSOPHY  OF  WOMAN.— By  Hericourt,    do.     $1.50 

Novels  by   Riiffiiil. 

DR.  ANTONIO.— A  love  story  of  Italy.  izmo.  cloth,  $1.75 

LAV1NIA;    OR,  THE  ITALIAN  ARTIST.—  do.  $1  -75 

VINCENZO:     OE,    SUNKEN     ROCKS.—  8vO.  cloth,    $1-75 

Rev    J oil ii  Camming,  D.D.,  of  London. 

THE  GREAT  TRIBULATION.— Two  series.          I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

THE  GREAT  PREPARATION.—         do.  .  do.  $1.50 

THE  GREAT  CONSUMMATION.—     do.  .  do.  $1.<JO 

truest  Renan. 

rHE  LIFE  OF  JESUS.— Translated  by  C.  E.  Wilbour  from  tbf 

celebrated  French  work.          .          .          I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

RELIGIOUS  HISTORY  AND  CRITICISM.—  8vO.  cloth,  $2.50 

Cuyler  Pine. 

MARY  BRANDEGEE.— An  American  novel.       In  press.     $1.75 
A  NEW  NOVEL.— In  •bress.    .         .         .         .    '     .         ii- 


LIST  0V  BOOKS  PUBLTSITKJ) 


Charles  Reade. 

THE  CLOISTER  AND  THE  HEARTH.— A  magnificent  new  novel,  by 
the  author  of  "Hard  Cash,"  etc.  .  8vo.  cloth,  $2.oc 
The  Opera. 

TALES  FROM  THE  OPERAS.— A  collection  of  clever  stories,  based 
upon  the  plots  of  all  the  famous  operas.  I2mo.  cl.,  $1.50 

J.  C.  JciiirrcKoii. 

A  BOOK  ABOUT  DOCTORS.— An  exceedingly  humorous  and  en- 
tertaining vo'ume  of  sketches,  stories,  and  facts,  about 
famous  physicians  and  surgeons.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

Fred.  S.  C'ozzens. 

THE  SPARROWQRASS  PAPERS —A  capital  humorous  work,  with 
illustrations  by  Darley.  .  .  izmo.  cloth,  $1.50 

F.  D.  Gnerrazzi. 

BEATRICE  CENCL— A  great  historical  novel.  Translated  from 
the  Italian  ;  with  a  portrait  of  the  Cenci,  from  Guido's 
famous  picture  in  Rome.  .  .  izmo.  cloth,  $1.75 

Private  OTiles  O'Reilly. 

HIS  BOOK.— Comic  songs,  speeches,  &c.         lamo.  cloth,  $1.50 
A  NEW  BOOK.— In  press.  ...         do.         $1.50 

The  New  York   Central  Park. 

A  SUPERB  GIFT  BOOK.— The  Central  Park  pleasantly  described, 
and  magnificently  embellished  with  more  .than  50  exquisite 
photographs  of  the  principal  views  and  objects  of  interest. 
A   large    quarto     volume,   sumptuously    bound  in  Turkey 
morocco,  .......     '$30.00 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 

THE  CULPRIT  FAY.— The  most  charming  faery  poem  in  the 
English  language.  Beautifully  printed.  I2mo.  cloth,  75  cts. 

Mother  Goose  for  Grown  Folks. 

HUMOROUS  RHYMES  for  grown  people ;  based  upon  the  famous 
"  Mother  Goose  Melodies."  .  .  I2mo.  cloth,  §i.oa 


FAIRY  FINGERS.— A  new  novel.  In  press.     I2mo.  cloth,  $1.75 

THE  MUTE  SINGER.—       do.  do.  do.  $1.75 

Robert  H.  Roosevelt. 

THE  GAME  FISH  OF  THE  NORTH.— Illustrated.    12mo.  cl.  $2.OO 

A  NEW  BOOK  ON  SPORTING.-  do.         In  press.  $2.00 

Sheridan  Le  Fann. 

WYLDER'S  HAND.— A  new  novel.     In  press.  .         $1-75 

HOUSE  BY  THE  CHURCHYARD —A  new  novel.    In  press.  $1.75 


BY  GEO.   W.  CARLSTOJf,  NEW  TORS. 


N.  H.  Chamberlain. 

THE  AUTOBIOGEAPHY  OF  A  NEW  ENGLAND  FABM-HOUSE.— $1.75 

Amelia  B.  Edwards. 

BALLADS.— By  author  of  "Barbara's  History."  In  Press.  $1.50 

S.  I»I.  Johnson. 

FEEE  GOVEENMENT  IN  ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA.— 8vo.  cl.  $3.00 

Captain  Semmes. 

THE  ALABAMA  AND  8UMTEE.—  .  .         1 2H1O.  cl.  $2.OO 

Hewes  Gordon. 

LOVEES  AND  THINKEES.— A  new  novel.     In  Press.    .     $1.75 

Caroline  May. 

POEMS.— Just  published.  .         .         .         12010.  cloth,  $1.50 

Slavery. 

THE  SUPPRESSED  BOOK  ABOUT  SLAVERY.—  12mO.  cloth,  $2.OO 

Railroad  and  Insurance 

ALMANAC  FOE  1865.— Full  of  Statistics.          .      8vo.  cloth,  $2.0O 
Stephen  Ittassett. 

DEIFTING  ABOUT.— Comic  book,  illustrated.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrirh. 

BABIE  BELL,  AND  OTHEE  POEMS.-BJue  and  gold  binding,  $1.50 
OUT  OF  His  HEAD.— A  new  romance.  i2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

Richard  H.  Stoddard. 

THE  KING'S  BELL.— A  new  poem.      .          I2mo.  cloth,  75  cts. 
THE  MOEGESONS.— A  novel.     By  Mrs.  R.  H.  Stoddard.  $1.50 

Edmund  C.  Stedman. 

ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.— A  new  poem.  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.25 

LTEICS  AND  IDYLS.—         .  .  .  .  do.  $1.25 

M.  T.  Wai  worth. 

LULU.— A  new  novel.               <  .         .  izmo.  cloth,  $1.50 

HOTSPUE.—     do do.         $1.50 

Author  of  "  Olie." 

NEPENTHE.— A  new  novel.         .         .  I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

TOGElHEE.—  do.  .  .  do.  $1.50 

Quest. 
A  NEW  ROMANCE.—  .  .  .  121HO.  cloth,  $1.50 

Vlctoire. 
A  NEW  NOVEL.—     ....         izmo.  cloth,  $1.75 

James  BE.  Ilackett. 

NOTES  AND  COMMENTS  ON  SHAKSPEAEE.—  1 2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 


8      LIST  OF  BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BT  CARLETON,  NEW  YORK.     ' 

Miscellaneous  Works. 

JOHN  GUILDERSTRING'S  SIN.— A  novel.    .    I2mo.  cloth,  $1.50 

CENTEOLA.— By  author  "  Green  Mountain  Boys."    do.  $1.50 

BED  TAPE  AND  PIGEON-HOLE  GENERALS.—   .           do.  $1.50 

THE  PARTISAN  LEADER.— By  Beverly  Tucker.        do.  $1.50 

ADAM  GUROWSKf.— Washington  diary  for  1863.     do.  $1.50 

TREATISE  ON  DEAFNESS.— By  Dr.  E.  B.  Lighthill.  do.  $1.50 

THE  PRISONER  OF  STATE.— By  D.  A.  Mahoney.     do.  $1.50 

AROUND  THE  PYRAMIDS.— By  Gen.  Aaron  Ward.  do.  $1.50 

CHINA  AND  THE  CHINESE.— By  W.  L.  G.  Smith,    do.  $1.50 

THE  WINTHROPS.— A  novel  by  J.  R.  Beckwith.      do.  $1.75 

SPREES  AND  SPLASHES.— By  Henry  Morford.        do.  $1.50 

GARRET  VAN  HORN.— A  novel  by  J.  S.  Sauzade.     do.  $1.50 

SCHOOL  FOR  THE  SOLDIER.— By  Capt.  Van  Ness.  do.  50  cts. 

THE  YACHTMAN'S  PRIMER.— By  T.  R.  Warren,     do.  50  cts. 

EDGAR  POE  AND  HIS  CRITICS.— By  Mrs.  Whitman,  do.  $1.00 

ERIC;  OR,  LITTLE  BY  LITTLE.— By  F.  W.  Farrar.    do.  $1.50 

SAINT  WINIFRED1s.-By  the  author  of  "  Eric."       do.  $1.50 

A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  WOMEN—       .            do.  $1.50 

THE  SEA.— By  Michelet,  author  of  "Love."            do.  $1.50 

MARRIED  OFF.— Illustrated  satirical  poem.     .          do.  50  cts. 

SCHOOL-DAYS  OF  EMINENT  MEN.— By  Timbs.            do.  $15.0 

ROMANCE  OF  A  POOR  YOUNG  MAN.—   .            .            do.  $1.50 

THE  FLYING  DUTCHMAN.— J.  G.  Saxe,  illustrated,  do.  75  cts. 

ALEXANDER  VON  HUMBOLDT.— Life  and  travels,     do.  $1.50 

LIFE  OF  HUGH  MILLER— The  celebrated  geologist,  do.  $1.50 

LYRICS  OF  A  DAY— or,  newspaper  poetry.    .          do.  $1.00 

THE  u.  8.  TAX  LAW.-"  Government  Edition."     do.  $1.00 

TACTICS ;  or,  Cupid  in  Shoulder-Straps.        .          do.  $1.50 

MARKED  FOR  LIFE.— Edited  by  "Marley."  .          do.  $1.00 

DEBT  AND  GRA.CE.-By  Rev.  C.  F.  Hudson.           do.  $1.75 

THE  RUSSIAN  BALL.-IHustrated  satirical  poem.     do.  50  cts. 

THE   SNOBLACE  BALL.—    do.                  do.       do.            do.  50  CtS. 

THE   CHURCH  IN  THE  ARMY.-By  Dr.  Scott.              do.  $1.75 

TEACH  US  TO  FRAY.-By  Dr.  Gumming.        .          do.  $1.50 

AN  ANSWER  TO  HUGH  MILLER.— By  T.  A.  Davies.  do.  $1.50 
COSMOGONY.-By  Thomas  A.  Davies.     .         8vo.  cloth,  $2.00 

TWENTY  YEARS  around  the  World.    J.  Guy  Vassar.  do.  $3.75 

THE.  SLAVE  POWER.-By  J.  E.  Cairnes.  .         .          do.  $2.00 

EURAL  ARCHlTECTURE.-By  M.  Field,  illustrated,    do.  $2.00 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  085  990     0 


